


The Makings of a Good Man

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depersonalization Disorder, F/M, Flashbacks, Illness, Memories, Post-Reichenbach, World Travel, kid!Jim, kid!Sherlock, life stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 84,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the villain shoots himself before the story starts and everyone else must fix the mess he made. Sherlock and a woman genius, Dr. Madder, travel the world to solve a threefold problem: a perfectly genuine computer code, a broken sniper, and Jim Moriarty's psychopathic ally, Adelbert Gruner (from The Illustrious Client).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. West Africa

**Author's Note:**

> Some language.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is too scared to call Mycroft and tell him that his younger brother’s dying. They can’t decide which is more of a danger to Sherlock: Moriarty’s men, or malaria.

He had memories of what it’d been like Before John.

The world: A constant stream of irrelevant information. Details inputted into his head and outputted as conclusions that didn’t matter. An overload of external stimuli. 

Too much. Vision sometimes shut down – a coping mechanism, to block out some of the excess information. When the blindness struck, he’d curl up on a London sidewalk for a time, or else grope for buildings to guide his way, if he was in a rush. Eventually he memorized every block and side street and gutter in the city, in case his sight should spontaneously disappear. 

Before: Years of voices melding together and faces with features shrouded in shadow. Certain faces became familiar, over time, and easier to process. Lestrade is in a number of his memories. Not the Lestrade he knows now; a more concerned, but less gray version of the D.I. In his memories Lestrade’s eyebrows are always furrowed, and he’s always disappointed. 

His brother is in those memories too, but never as a face. When he pictures Mycroft he sees a CCTV camera angled awkwardly toward him, or a lean silhouette following him in the night. 

He used to take taxis because the tube had been too much. People, watching him. Or not watching him, and talking to each other. Endless chatter and the groaning of an electric train that ran twenty-four hours a day. He’d hired people to shop for him; the music or televisions in stores was overwhelming. 

It is a damned good thing no one had ever sent him to a doctor. He’d been a dissociative curiosity; he watched the world outside himself, mostly – as much of the world as he could handle, that is. It was only when he was on a case that he jolted back into himself, found something tangible and manageable to focus on. Later, after John, people assumed that Sherlock sought adrenaline highs as much as John did. He didn’t, not really. Cases made the world less overwhelming. Like cocaine, they gave him one problem to focus on, for a time, instead of myriad problems out of his control, and not even solvable. 

He imagines that one day, if he hadn’t discovered detective work and John, his brain would have become inflamed. It would have cracked his skull, and his skull would’ve pierced a seam down his head, and Sherlock’s thoughts would have exploded into the universe.

* * * * 

It’d been scary, Before: he used to end up places and have no idea how he got there. When external stimuli became too much, his mind shut down, and memory formation became impossible. He’d call his brother during those times. Mycroft always knew where he was, would always send someone to pick him up. After, John was with him, almost always, guiding him. That was enough. 

Sherlock made a promise to himself when he was on the rooftop of Bart’s: He wasn’t going to lose himself again. He would not forget hours, or days, of his life. He would focus, focus, focus on crushing Moriarty’s web, and once he came back John would be there to anchor him. He promised himself.

* * * *

Sherlock breaks that promise. He gets on a plane. Goes somewhere, somewhere important, somewhere Moriarty’s web is involved.

The plane ride: Too much. Dozens of vents, pushing out dry, cool air onto the sleeping faces of passengers. Too much breathing, too much thinking, too many laptops droning and iPods playing softly. Too much turbulence. Too many times the flight attendants had to tell him to stop pacing up and down the aisles, to sit down. He accuses two of them, loudly, of sleeping with the pilot, and they look at each other like their worst suspicions of one another have been confirmed. They forget he’s there, so he takes his seat, and he imagines he didn’t shout out his deduction. He imagines he whispered it, softly, in the ear of the dozing passenger beside him (Not the fat man who tried leaning against Sherlock’s shoulder, obviously – John. He’s _imagining._ ). John would have giggled, and Sherlock would have felt the immense relief he always feels when John makes Sherlock’s more useless deductions into something (sentimentally) valuable. But John isn’t here. Nothing to do with the information. Can’t stop it from flowing in, though; can’t stop his brain from analyzing everything. Too much. Too much. Overload.

He needs to find another skull, if he can’t have John.

* * * *

Shit.

He isn’t in the plane anymore. He is standing in an airport, feet away from a pair of doors that lead to a city. Shit. Shit. He’s here. But _where?_ He racks his brain; where had Mycroft sent him first? Impossible to reach information when the brain is too busy struggling to process minute details, like the sound of dust drifting in the air. Everything hurts.

He dials Mycroft.

“Brother, dear. Was your death successful?”

“Where am I?” Sherlock says. He closes his eyes; sunlight is pouring in through the glass doors. Too much.

“Sudan,” says Mycroft. “Shall I send someone to help you?” Mycroft’s minions are lurking, of course; here to kill the bad guys once Sherlock figures out who the bad guys are.

“No. That’d ruin everything, you know that.” He can feel Mycroft purse his lips on the other end.

“They’re there if you need saving,” Mycroft says. And hangs up.

* * * *

Everything passes in a whirl. The heat, the dehydration, the water, the diarrhea. The wish that John were here, treating him, even though Sherlock would be embarrassed and moody if he were, and even though Mycroft’s minions have every medication he needs. It bothers him, that he’s in less danger than he thought he would be. It makes him less a martyr. Makes it seem like he left John for nothing.

It’s not like a case; there is no definite goal, no definite number of criminals that Sherlock needs to name. There are no crime scenes, only suspected individuals and hints from Mycroft. Only following people, trying to remain discreet despite having the lightest skin for miles. He works restlessly for four weeks, and the chase becomes his obsession. As soon as he’s given Mycroft enough information to go on, Sherlock collapses. 

His body gives out when he returns to his hotel room. He’d been hungry and thirsty since arriving; hardly any of the food or water available seems trustworthy. He’d been jittery from an overdose of street coffee, but now that’s worn out. His heart and head are pounding and he’s drenched in perspiration. He groans and closes his eyes. 

None of Mycroft’s assistants check on him until the next morning. They find him curled up on the hardwood floor, in a puddle of sweat and urine and vomit.

They think he has malaria. He needs serious medical assistance, but none is available in the country. He hears them talking about it to each other; rough, male voices shouting, debating their next move. Everyone too scared to call Mycroft and tell him that his younger brother’s dying. They can’t cross the border with him; every man is needed to target Moriarty’s men. They can’t decide which is more of a danger to Sherlock: Moriarty’s men, or malaria. 

End up sending Sherlock on his way in a stretcher, with an interpreter. Sherlock’s passed out for the plane ride. He’ll be safe, though, Mycroft’s men decide; three American doctors wait for him in Ethiopia. 

* * * *

He wakes up in a tent. He’s sore down to his marrow; his body so exhausted from ceaseless shivering that now he can barely move. It’s sweltering but there’s a cool rag on his forehead and he’s lying naked and bald. Perhaps this should bother him, but he’s never been one for modesty and he’s mostly just pleased his caretakers have taken reasonable precautions against the heat.

“Ah, you’re awake.” A white, brown-haired man, tall and muscular, slips through the tent. He’s wearing a three piece suit despite the heat, and a ridiculous sunhat is balanced on top of his head. He hovers over Sherlock and seems to care even less about Sherlock’s nudity than Sherlock does.

“Where am I?” Sherlock rasps.

“Ethiopia,” the man says vaguely. “And congratulations! As it turns out, you don’t have malaria. You’re just weak as hell and used to clean water.” The man holds up his hand, grinning, and waits for Sherlock. Sherlock stares back dully. The man’s grin slips away. “Too soon for a high-five?”

Sherlock can’t place the man’s accent. It might be American, but his consonants are too rhythmic and clipped.

“Right. Well, if you can stand, I can help you get dressed. We’ll need to leave very soon.”

Sherlock’s memories come back to him, at least enough of them to make sense of why he is naked and bald in a tent in Africa: the rooftop, his phone call with John, the fall, the plane ride, Sudan, his collapse…

Sudan had been first on his list. Check. Ethiopia wasn’t on his list at all. So this man – one of Mycroft’s men, obviously – is asking him to go to the country next on the list. Which is… Right.

“Somalia,” Sherlock says faintly. The man chuckles.

“I think we need to get _you_ out of Africa. Only first world countries for you, Mr. Holmes. And now up you get,” the man says, grunting as he squats by Sherlock’s side and pushes Sherlock up by his shoulders. Sherlock manages to stay there, long enough for the man to pull Sherlock’s arms through the sleeves of a loose cotton T-shirt.

* * * *

“You’re not one of Mycroft’s men.” Sherlock figures it out as the man is helping Sherlock put on shorts. Under normal circumstances, he would have known this immediately, but his brain feels slow and groggy at the moment. It’s a new sensation.

“No, I don’t work for governments,” says the man. “But you obviously need me, seeing as how Mycroft’s men had you leave Sudan with only an interpreter, and that interpreter was detained at the border.”

“You got me past the border,” Sherlock says. 

“Yes,” the man says, as Sherlock fumbles to secure the shorts around his hipbones. His fingers trace across hard bone. He’s lost a lot of weight in just four weeks; he wonders if John would find him pathetic, getting ill twice in less than a full month after his “death.” He wonders if John thinks of him at all.

No. Stupid. He must. 

John needs Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t need John. Sherlock had forgotten that. 

“Come on, look brighter. If you look sick they won’t let you on the plane,” the man says, giving Sherlock’s arm a punch. Sherlock feels woozy; falls back.

“I shouldn’t go with you,” he says. 

“Probably not, but you will,” says the man.

“Why would I?” he snaps.

“Because you’re sick and alone and you don’t do ‘alone.’ I can tell. You need me.” The man stands. “I’ll be waiting outside. We should be out of this village by sunset.”

Sherlock manages to stand on his own, shaking and weak. When he walks out he finds four men sitting on the ground. Three are obviously the American doctors; Sherlock wonders if he should be thanking them, but it doesn’t seem worth the effort. The fourth is the man that helped dress Sherlock; he’s laughing and smiling boisterously. There’s a group of small, dark-skinned children around him, and they’re all shouting the same word. It takes a moment for Sherlock to comprehend it as, “Papa!” The man is hugging them like he really is their papa, and every now and then he gives one a kiss on the head.

Handmade bowls are on the dirt ground, Sherlock notices; the three by the doctors have been scraped empty.

“Mr. Holmes, good to see you standing,” the man says. He reaches past the children, and pushes one of the filled bowls forward. “Dinner’s waiting.”

Sherlock drops to the ground. He looks distastefully at the bowl, which is full of cold lentils.

“I’m not hungry,” he says flatly. The children all quiet and stare. The man gives him a pleasant smile, but his eyes are hard and unyielding. 

“You’re never ‘not hungry’ in Ethiopia, Mr. Holmes. Eat the food. _Now.”_ Sherlock and the man stare at each other for several long seconds. The doctors are frowning. Sherlock feels like a fool, and he’s wondering if maybe staring this man down will win him back his pride. It doesn’t. He takes the bowl. 

The man nods and goes back to playing with the children. 

“Who wants one last piggy back ride?” he asks, laughing merrily, and all the children jump up and raise their hands. It’s a happy sight, almost. Sherlock almost smiles, the taste of lentils dull and dry in his mouth.


	2. Dr. Madder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I owe you many apologies, my dear Watson, but it was all-important that it should be thought I was dead ... " -Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Empty House

The American doctors take Sherlock’s vitals one last time, and collectively approve his leaving. They hand him and the man bottles of water before they leave, and some of the children cry and sulk, “Papa…” Sherlock and the man go to the airport in a provided car. 

* * * * 

They sit beside each other. An Ethiopian driver is taking them down a dirt road in his Jeep. The Jeep’s wheels dispel the road’s dust into mushroom clouds, so that they’re like an oversized, traveling mote. If the windows were open they’d all be choking to death. 

The man is looking out the window, and some part of Sherlock wants the man to be looking at him. That’s usually how it is, after all. People look at him. But he’s dead now, so that might explain the change. 

Mostly out of habit, Sherlock takes note of the thick build of the man. He’s bulky, but a bit soft, like maybe layers of muscle have recently been obscured by a layer of fat. So: He exercises, but his diet isn’t healthy. That, combined with the way he talks with his hands and the alacrity in his voice when he speaks... 

He’s an Italian. English is his second language – that explains his clipped, rhythmic way of speaking. He spent a significant time in America, was likely even raised there, but his parents are from Italy. He grew up around them, absorbed their habits, spent nights around the TV watching the Italian news and slurping down meatballs. 

His suit indicates wealth, and his ample stature indicates a generous appetite, but he has an obvious awareness of poverty that says he’s not classist. He seems familiar with Africa. He doesn’t have a newcomer’s fear of being carjacked, but looks out the window like he’s aware that carjacking is a definite possibility. 

So: Italian, grew up in the United States – likely the northeast, going by his accent – and worked his way to his current level of wealth. Might be a stretch, but possibly became wealthy so that he could raise a clan of Ethiopian orphans. Noble. 

And he saved Sherlock’s life. Sherlock barely knew him, but he saved Sherlock’s life. That reminds Sherlock of another noble man he knows, but he tries to push the thought out of his head. Not wise to trust a strange man just because he resembles John. Even if that man did bring a sick Sherlock across the Sudanese border. 

“You’re Italian,” Sherlock begins. The man turns and raises his eyebrows. 

“What makes you think that?” 

Sherlock flutters his own hands. “Animated body language. And your accent says your grew up in America, the northeast specifically, probably New York, but your parents…” 

He goes through his deductions, adding more as he thinks of them: “Your shoes were shined recently, but not well. Going from the direction of the waxy smears leftover on them, you shined them yourself, while wearing them. You’d feel pretentious hiring someone to shine your shoes, but you care a lot about your appearance. So,” he concludes, “an entrepreneur with a good heart, who’s had to make his way to the top by speaking well and looking good.” 

There is a pause. Then the man laughs. 

And that’s as much praise as he offers. His bewilderment? Nonexistent. Sherlock frowns. 

“I’m unable to deduce your name, though,” Sherlock says after a few minutes, “and I ought to know it, yes?” 

Now the man turns back to Sherlock. He’s grinning the silly, crooked grin of a warmhearted rags-to-riches Italian finance guy. The grin seems to say that the man has a secret, but one that, if you asked, he’d tell you. 

“Dr. Madder,” the man says. Then adds, “But it’s not an M.D.” 

“Finance,” Sherlock says. “Or business.” 

The man’s eyes twinkle. “Oh, you’re good.” 

Sherlock extends his hand for a handshake. “I am, aren't I?” 

* * * * 

Hours have passed. Sherlock is looking out a window, but he’s not really looking. He’s thinking. 

His father died. 

When he was fourteen. 

John knows that. 

Dying: The end to consciousness. Electrical activity of the brain ceases. Cardiac arrest without hope of the heart restarting. Eventually, algor mortis: the reduced temperature of a corpse. Used in the Glaister equation, to approximate the time that has spanned between an individual’s Life and his Death. Sherlock hasn’t had to use that in a while; John’s good for that stuff. 

(There really is a reason why he needs an assistant.) 

John’s a doctor. He may not be brilliant, but he knows things. Even things Sherlock doesn’t know. He knows about the stages of death, the rigor mortis. He’s felt the stiffness of corpses in Afghanistan, held the cold, dead hands of soldiers he failed to heal. 

It’s been weeks; if Sherlock _were_ dead, he'd be gruesomely decomposed by now. And John is a doctor with a history of nightmares and PTSD. Sherlock can't be positive - he never is, with this stuff - but seeing a corpse might be triggering. Dead bodies are commonplace for him, and also for John, but he's been told that it's different when you know the person. So: John’s having nightmares. His subconscious is conjuring up medically-accurate visions of his dead best friend.

Sherlock’s echoic memory summons the past sounds of John after he first moved into 221B. He would fall asleep in his bedroom upstairs and Sherlock would stand by his door in the middle of the night. He’d listen to his new flatmate because that was what Sherlock did with things that were strange and novel to him. 

John used to cry. A routine man: Every morning, between 4:10 and 4:30 AM. Corresponded with his sleep cycles – he’d be in REM and Sherlock would be on the other side of his door, with his ear pressed against the wood, and he’d be picturing John’s eyes rolling in their sockets, eyelids flickering, and then John would cry out. He’d sob, but never for long (a fighter, always), and then Sherlock would hear his deep breathing go on for minutes. A coping mechanism they taught him in the war. Deep breaths. Calm down. Just a nightmare, John. 

Too much. Too much. (Emotional) Overload. 

Sherlock snaps back. 

Oh. 

He’s on a plane. 

Dr. Madder is sitting next to him, and for some reason he’s leaning toward Sherlock, so that his ridiculous sunhat is almost poking Sherlock in the eye. 

“What are you doing?” Dr. Madder asks. 

“What do you mean – ” Sherlock looks down. He has his phone in his hand, and he’s very nearly sent a text to John’s number. 

_I’m not decomposing. – SH_

Dr. Madder grabs the phone, and Sherlock reacts. He throws his arm across the other man’s chest and slams him against his seat. Dr. Madder grunts, and Sherlock twists his wrist. The man releases the phone just as the other passengers begin to stare. 

Sherlock presses ‘send.’ 

Dr. Madder blinks at him. 

“That was profoundly stupid,” he says. “Mr. Holmes, that was _profoundly_ stupid. Do you realize how – ” 

But Sherlock isn’t listening, because he’s already gotten a text back. He flips his phone open (it’s a new phone, one from Mycroft, one that apparently can’t be traced, or tapped, or infiltrated in any way). 

_We’re sorry, but the number you have texted cannot be reached._

Automated text from the phone company. And then, not a second later, another text: 

_Don’t be so predictable. –MH_

Sherlock growls, and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. Damn Mycroft! And damn himself, and his own bloody emotions. Must he divorce himself from feelings anew? Tedious. He has work to do. Can’t be distracted. 

Then he realizes: Mycroft still thinks he’s in Sudan. There’s a reason why Mycroft doesn’t trust his own workers – they’re all selfish. None of them would have owned up to sending their boss’s little brother across the border with only an interpreter. His location is his secret. His and Dr. Madder’s. 

Sherlock Holmes has not been free of his brother since he was born. He has always been tracked, traced, followed, watched. His brother was made a snoop, and Sherlock was his first victim. There wasn’t a thing Sherlock could do as a child that Mycroft wouldn’t report to Mummy. 

And now he’s free. This could be very interesting. 

“You don’t need him anyway,” Dr. Madder says, as if he’s read Sherlock’s thoughts. Sherlock frowns and looks at the man. 

“Don’t I?” 

“No,” says Dr. Madder, and he turns away, pulling his hat over his eyes so that it rests at a jaunty angle, and obscures the top portion of his face in shadow. “You have me.” 

* * * * 

They exit the Haneda Airport and wait at what Dr. Madder calls a “taxi stand.” They’re surrounded by Tokyo businessmen and South Korean tourists, but Dr. Madder yells, “TAKUSHI ONEGAISHIMASU!” so loudly that Sherlock and him get the first cab that drives by. 

“Arigatou,” Dr. Madder says to the cab driver, getting in before Sherlock. Sherlock lets him; Dr. Madder is the one who knows where they're going. While getting into the cab, Sherlock cranks his memory for all the Japanese he knows, but not much comes to him besides the words for _murder_ and _robbery_ and _double homicide._ And, of course, _shut up._

“Ni Sakae-mura, onegaishimasu.” 

The cab driver pauses. “Sore wa san-jikan no kyori desu.” 

“Sou desu,” responds Dr. Madder. He turns to Sherlock. “The ride’s three hours.” 

“To Sakae-mura…” Sherlock’s memory is jogged. “A village in Nagano prefecture.” 

Dr. Madder smiles and leans back, like he’s ready to take a nap. The straw brim of his hat is becoming bent and frayed, as it’s been pressed for hours against the seat of a plane. 

Strange, Sherlock thinks. Usually he can deduce what foreign languages someone knows. He hadn’t spotted that Dr. Madder knew Japanese. He opens his mouth to say something, but Dr. Madder interrupts. 

“We’ll need to wear disguises, obviously. Can’t have a dead man walking, and it’s best if no one recognizes me. Don’t worry, though,” Dr. Madder says reassuringly, as if Sherlock understood enough of what was going on to _be_ worried, “I’ve already got a good disguise prepared. At home in Sakae-mura. It’s waiting for us.” 

“You’ve been expecting me,” Sherlock says. 

“No,” says Dr. Madder. “The disguise _is_ best for two people, a male and a female, but it was made for another man. Not you. You’ll do, though. Certainly.” 

Sherlock clenches his fists. When he was a child, first discovering the Science of Deduction, he used to phrase his deductions as questions. Because in the beginning, he was often wrong. As his accuracy increased, so did his amount of _stated_ observations. But Dr. Madder makes him feel like he should go back to questions. 

Because the discrepancies are compiling. 

“Your accent,” Sherlock says. “It’s clipped, rhythmic. Not Italian – Japanese. And you just said…” 

No. No. It couldn’t be. 

“Repeat the last thing you said, exactly as you said it,” Sherlock commands. 

“No. That disguise _is_ best for two people, a male and a female,” says Dr. Madder, his vocal expressions eerily similar to the last time he spoke, “but it was made for another man. Not you. You’ll do, though. Certainly.” 

“A male and a female,” Sherlock says. No. No. Impossible. 

Dr. Madder’s lips perk up. It’s the face adults wear when children have said something stupid, and subsequently funny, but adults don’t want to be condescending. And so they try to hide their smiles. And it never works. 

No one has ever worn that face due to Sherlock before. 

“Mr. Holmes, I’m so sorry. You didn’t… You didn’t really think…” Dr. Madder’s eyes widen like she’s seeing something in Sherlock’s face, something the detective doesn’t want to reveal. “Oh dear. You did. You actually thought – oh. Wow. I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I hadn’t meant to mislead you. I read your website. The Science of Deduction. Very clever. I thought… I didn’t think I could fool you. Your deductions back in Ethiopia – about the nonexistent Italian man. I thought you were kidding. Oh dear. Oh dear.” But the longer she talks, the more pleased she looks with herself, and the more soprano her previously-baritone voice becomes. She adds, “I really do underestimate myself, don’t I?” 

The longer she talks, the angrier Sherlock gets. He snatches off her stupid hat. 

Long hair comes cascading down. Long, brown hair that hasn’t been washed in a while, framing a face that… 

Sherlock groans. Makeup. The damn woman’s wearing makeup, making her angles look wider, sharper, more masculine. And - 

He reaches across her suit. It’s not fat she has, it’s actual padding. He pats roughly, to make sure – yes. Definite breasts. 

“Mr. Holmes – ” 

“Sawarenai!” cries the cab driver and his tone, regardless of his precise meaning, is clear enough for Sherlock to drop his hands. 

“If it helps,” the woman says apologetically, “my name really is Dr. Madder. Anabelle Madder. The degree’s in mathematics, but I’ve got a few others too.” 

Sherlock looks at her, really looks for the first time. He remembers when he tried to deduce Irene Adler, naked and staring defiantly back at him. His deductions had been: 

???? 

They are the same now. He had myriad deductions about a man that never existed, but he couldn’t even tell what _languages_ this woman knows. And that should be elementary. 

Irene Adler had been all mischief. She’d shown off her cleverness with every bat of her eyelids, pacing like a panther ready to pounce. This – _woman_ – though, this Dr. Madder, doesn’t look like a show-off. She’s not of Adler and Holmes’s breed. She didn’t mean to trick him. She'd fooled Sherlock Holmes by accident. 

In other words: She’s something new. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Japanese may be incorrect. I apologize for any inaccuracies.


	3. Sakae-mura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's actually a terribly emotional man and he's a desperate show-off. And far from being cold and remote, he's got a bunch of people who look after him." -Moffat

After the painfully long plane ride to Haneda Airport, the three hour drive out of Tokyo proves too much for Sherlock’s weary bones. By the time he and Dr. Madder reach her house in Sakae-mura, he only just makes it inside and heeds her request that he slip off his shoes, before collapsing against a wall. 

He should be worried about the dryness of his throat, or the ceaseless gurgling of his stomach. He should figure out whether the heat emitting from his skin is due to sunburn, or fever, or both. But instead his delirious brain contemplates one thing: The ride from Tokyo to Sakae-mura was very different from his ride from Khartoum to Al Qadarif in Sudan. His thoughts are muddled, like floating, intangible wisps, and it’s nearly impossible to grab onto one securely, so as to decide what made the separate rides so different. 

His head is lolling against the cold wall of Dr. Madder’s foyer, and the doctor is grasping him by the shoulders. She hoists him up and forces open his jaw. He can’t see anything through his flickering eyelids, but he feels cold water gurgle down his throat. He swallows gratefully, coughing when the doctor pours too much too quickly. Once he’s emptied an entire glass, he figures it out. 

“I remember our cab ride,” he slurs. 

“Mm? That’s good. Very good, Mr. Holmes. Come on, now. You need a cold bath.” Dr. Madder begins dragging him with much effort, not understanding the significance of what he’s said. 

The cab ride in Sudan: He can’t remember it. It happened, obviously, but it’s all a dissociative blur, much like life Before John. 

The cab ride in Japan: He remembers every dreary, monotonous detail of it. 

There are so many differing factors between the two. A difference in temperature, location, distance driven, etc. But one factor stands out as the most prominent, and he suspects that this factor in particular may be the cause of his lucidity. 

Dr. Madder rode with him in Japan. 

_“Interesting,”_ he murmurs to himself, while the woman grunts and drags his arms down her hallway. Thinking that he may have found his new skull, if not his new John, Sherlock takes a deep breath and allows the world to go dark. 

* * * * 

Sherlock awakens in the middle of a living room. He’s on a comforter, which has been laid out neatly on a clean, hardwood floor, and after a moment he becomes aware of the fact that he is, once again, stark naked. There’s a glass of cool water and a mug of steaming green tea to his right. The tea is hot, meaning that whoever put it there (Dr. Madder, he remembers) left the room less than five minutes ago. And is likely coming back. 

He sits up, manages to cover his offending areas with the comforter beneath him, and inhales. The air is clean, filtered. The room has a sterile feel to it, distinctly different from the scented, familiar air of 221B, and Sherlock finds it unpleasant. He’s surrounded by tall bookshelves, unadorned and built obviously by hand. They’ve got a decent layer of dust on them, contradicting the sterile air – whoever lives here (Dr. Madder) has been away for a considerable length of time. From his low line of vision on the floor he sees that the bottom shelves, at least, are supplied with books in English, Japanese, and Arabic. 

He sees no book titles in German, Latin, Ancient Greek, etc. Languages are important. Dr. Madder, presuming these books are hers (which they may not be), has chosen to embrace the picturesque characters of Japanese, the flourishes of Arabic. She’s disregarded the hard, precise logic and steely grammar that other languages could offer. That says something about her. 

Blindly, he reaches out to a random book, one that happens to be in Arabic. Although he can’t read it, he sees enough diagrams and charts to know the book is nonfiction, discussing something which requires the use of calculus. He places the tome back on the bookshelf, and opens five more. They’re all specialized, arcane books, most involving mathematics. 

Someone who chooses languages for their aesthetic value, but uses those languages to acquire concrete knowledge. 

So: Dr. Madder. A walking contradiction. 

That’s hardly surprising, is it? 

The walking contradiction walks into the room. Sherlock looks up, and sees her smiling. 

“I thought you’d be waking soon,” she says. 

Going from how much the sunburn on his arms has faded, he estimates that he slept for about twelve hours. Sometime during those twelve hours, Dr. Madder abandoned her Italian-finance-guy disguise in order to adopt what Sherlock assumes is her typical attire. The clothes are at least a year old – probably from the last time she was in America. Can’t find clothes for a female so tall in Japan. She’s wearing jeans that are faded at the knees, brown boots, a tucked in collared shirt, and a brown leather belt. The outfit, somehow, manages to look more formal than it ought on her, like she’s wearing a suit instead of jeans. Her long brown hair, now freed from that ridiculous sunhat, has been brushed carelessly behind her shoulders. Her features are average, at best – nothing too fascinating. Brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. Sharp eyebrows. Sherlock’s lost the ability to judge attractiveness subjectively, so he relies on his research into what makes someone objectively attractive according to society’s contemporary standards. He’s gotten quite good at looking at people this way. Dr. Madder’s breasts, for example, are too small. Her upper body muscles would be considered attractive on a male, but for a female they’re too apparent. Her nose is too long for her face. 

It’s her clothes that interest him, though. They’re very classic American. She’s an expatriate, maybe. But somehow still a nationalist? 

A walking contradiction. 

She’s carrying a bundle of clothes. She tells him to put them on, says she thinks they’ll fit. They’re men’s clothing, but can’t be for one of her disguises – they _do_ fit him, and would be too large for her. She treats them delicately when she hands them to him, allowing him to deduce that she possesses sentiment for the owner of the clothes. A boyfriend, likely. 

“I’d dress you again, but I don’t think you need me to,” she says. 

“I can do quite well on my own, thank you,” he says curtly, and she leaves the room while he changes. 

* * * * 

“You’re a translator,” he tells her the next morning. He’s wearing a second outfit provided by the unidentified male: Jeans and a polo shirt. It doesn’t suit him, but neither does being bald. The clothes feel too rough and too loose, and without his curls he looks positively cadaverous. He was too sick in Ethiopia to care about his lack of hair, but now his vanity has caught up with him: He regarded himself in Dr. Madder’s bathroom mirror that morning and found that, without the contrast of dark hair against pale eyes, his eyes look drained, almost soulless. His skin is an unflattering red, rather than tan, and his cheekbones are prominent and exposed. If Dr. Madder has noticed his hideousness (which of course she has – people always notice others’ looks, if little else), she’s made no comment. 

“Am I?” she asks him, grinning. They’re sitting across from each other at a table in her kitchen, their knees balanced on separate tatami mats. Dr. Madder’s offered him a bowl of steamed white rice, raw tofu with a plate of soy sauce, and a grilled slice of salmon. He eats it all with no regard for taste. 

“Are you?” he asks, suddenly unsure. 

She shrugs. 

Infuriating. 

He wants to _know._

* * * * 

He does nothing for four days. 

Correction: He sleeps and eats and drinks a lot of water. By the second day, he begins teaching himself Japanese from some of Dr. Madder’s books, because he’s bored and it could prove useful, considering his current location. He starts exercising again, to reacquire the bulk he’d built up since meeting John. He does pushups and crunches the way John once showed him to. His arms look like sticks and the individual bones of his ribcage are visibly outlined by his skin. It’s just like his uni days. 

It is on his fifth day in Japan that he realizes something is wrong. It dawns on him in the evening, when he's in the bath and brainstorming his next move. He jumps – soaking Dr. Madder’s tiled floor in the process – at the prospect of an argument. 

“What the bloody hell,” he declares, marching from the bathroom to the living room, naked and dripping wet (for effect, of course), “have you done with my phone?” 

So calmly it enrages him, Dr. Madder raises her eyes from her book _(Chronometry in 16th Century China)_ , does not move from her spot on the floor, and says, “Honestly, Mr. Holmes. I traveled with my brother for ten years and never saw him naked as often as I have seen you in the nude in the last week. There are enough towels in the bathroom to assist you, I assure.” 

“Where is my phone?” he growls, chin narrowed. She quirks up an eyebrow, reaches into her pocket, and tosses him his phone. He flips it open, getting water on its screen. 

A moment later he says, “My brother’s been looking for me.” 

This is an understatement. There have been 105 calls and 57 texts in the last several days. A sample of the latter reads: 

_(6:18 P.M.) Tell me where you are._

(6:25 P.M.) Enough of this. Call me right now. 

(6:27 P.M.) I knew you would do something like this. 

(6:31 P.M.) You are ridiculous. 

(6:34 P.M.) I’m furious with you. 

(6:34 P.M.) Are you okay? 

(6:47 P.M.) Call me. 

“He nearly found you, too,” Dr. Madder says. “We were caught on a CCTV camera in Tokyo, but there aren’t any CCTV cameras in a place as small as Sakae-mura. This place is my safe house.” 

And sure enough, Sherlock finds: 

_(10:28 A.M.) I know you were in Tokyo at 10:20 A.M. JST. Where have you gone?_

“I should call him right now,” Sherlock says. 

“You could.” Dr. Madder shrugs. “Or you could wait.” 

“Why would I?” he snaps. 

“Because you’re the genius detective who faked his own suicide, Mr. Holmes. You did it to save your friends, and I’m assuming you’d like to return to those friends as quickly as possible.” Sherlock does not deny this. “Mycroft offers you a way to crush Moriarty’s web, but I am offering you a faster way.” 

“Really? Is that what you’re doing? Because it looks to me like you’re reading a book,” says Sherlock through gritted teeth. He begins to dial Mycroft’s number. 

“I need your help, Mr. Holmes, so I’d appreciate it if you put the phone down.” Dr. Madder sighs. 

“I thought _you_ wanted to help _me,”_ he says. 

“Can we not help each other?” 

Dr. Madder and Sherlock exchange a long, hard stare. It ends with Sherlock slowly setting his phone on a nearby bookcase. He returns to the bathroom for a towel. 

* * * * 

During breakfast the next day (steamed rice, umeboshi, miso soup), Dr. Madder abruptly rises and declares, “I’m going for a walk.” 

Sherlock feigns disinterest. “Enjoy yourself,” he says. She bows to him (she’s spent a lot of time in Japan, obviously) and leaves the room. He waits until he hears the front door open and close before he stands. 

He rushes to slip on his shoes in the foyer, and cracks open the front door. He peers outside, at Dr. Madder’s front porch, and finds Dr. Madder walking down the pavement. He glances around him: The front yard is full of potted, bright flowers and verdure, grown unruly after the long absence of the house’s owner. Across the street is a parked taxi. The taxi driver is dozing, not exactly looking for customers. An idea sparks in Sherlock’s head. 

He dashes across the street, keeping low, and finds that the driver’s window of the cab is – luckily – open. 

With a rough blow against the sleeping man’s head from Sherlock’s blunt fist, the man falls sure and heavy against the steering wheel. He’s unconscious, but not for long. Sherlock reaches his arm in the car, unlocks it, and opens the door. He brings the man’s body out onto the pavement. He hops in the front seat and starts the cab, slouching low. 

Sherlock Holmes has a great weakness when it comes to cabbies. Never bothers to see who they are. That weakness has been exploited – twice. He’s hoping Dr. Madder will make a similar mistake. 

He drives around the block and pulls up to the corner of the street just as Dr. Madder reaches it. Sherlock readjusts the rearview mirror so that the front of his face isn’t reflected in its glass. 

Dr. Madder opens the door. 

“San-ni-ichi-hachi-roku Ishizuecho-dori, chuo-ku, onegaishimasu,” she says. 

He had been hoping to plug in the address in the GPS beside him, but both Dr. Madder and the GPS’s Japanese make this impossible. 

“Ni Niigata,” she adds from the backseat. As far as he can tell, she’s paying no attention to who’s driving her. That, at least, is going as planned. 

Niigata. He recognizes that – the city that borders Sakae-mura. Capital of Nagano prefecture. 

Okay. He can drive to Niigata. 


	4. Sasaki Facilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Are you the key maker?"_

In Niigata, he steers the stolen cab aimlessly, wondering how long it will take for the Japanese cabbie to wake up and alert the police, and how long it will take the police to find the cab. He estimates at least an hour. Should be ample. 

Of course, he has no idea where he’s going. Maybe he will park the cab somewhere in the city and _run_ , concealing his face in the process. Dr. Madder would be very baffled by such a fickle cabbie indeed, but she'd likely proceed to her destination regardless. He'd find his way to her again, and resume his spying. His plan is absurd, and he thinks that, if John were with him, John would be laughing. 

Then something miraculous happens. 

“O.K. desu. Ii desu,” Dr. Madder says. Her words take on the universal tone of anyone who’s ever said, _“Okay, this is fine. Leave me off here,”_ to a cabbie. Slightly stunned, he parks up to the pavement. Dr. Madder hands him some yen, still not looking at him, and she gets out. She enters a multistoried, steel-colored building. It has a Romanized sign on it: **Sasaki Facilities.**

Sherlock parks the cab and walks in after Dr. Madder, swinging open glass doors. 

He finds himself staring at a great expanse of grey wall that stretches in two directions. The wall is bare, excluding a single exception: Directly in front of him is a framed photograph of an older Japanese man. He has wrinkles around his eyes, graying black hair, and the smile of someone who's moderately intelligent. A golden plaque beneath the frame reads, "Souta Sasaki, Ph.D." Sherlock takes note of it in virtually no time and returns to his task. Dr. Madder has already vanished. He cannot hear her footsteps echoing from down the hall, and there's no indication of what direction she might have chosen. 

Chance…chance… Left or right? Right or left? John would choose left, wouldn’t he? Because he’s left-handed? Sherlock likes to leave the chance bits of their adventures up to John. He turns left. 

He rushes down the hall. It’s lined with doors, but they’re all locked. None of the rooms are labeled. It’s spooky; no official building would have a layout like this. Something’s not right. 

There are no elevators, at least none that he can find. He discovers stairs that lead to floors that contain winding, nonsensical halls, most of which lead to more locked doors, but some of which lead nowhere at all. They seem to have been built to strategically confuse an intruder. The building is eerily silent, making Sherlock feel very much alone. The sound of his rustling jeans bounces off the walls, the echoes tenfold as loud as the initial noise. 

On the fourth floor, Sherlock finds a second occupant. 

It’s not Dr. Madder. 

Down the hall, a woman is running. She’s holding a gun with one hand like it’s an extension of her arm, and her body moves with the hard, unwavering focus that indicates a chase. She’s dashing after someone, someone who likely vanished around the corner moments before Sherlock stepped onto the fourth floor. 

The woman stops. Her body lurches to a sudden halt, and her head snaps back in Sherlock’s direction, as if she detected him with predatory hearing. She has dark eyes and frenzied features that scream of a lust for violence. 

Sherlock runs. 

He dashes down the hall, toward the door that leads to the stairs. He races up to the fifth floor, hearing pounding boots behind him. Uselessly his brain conjures the image of John and his gun, 5800 miles away. 

He dashes down the fifth floor hallway and scrambles to the nearest door. A gun goes off behind him, making him duck as he twists a doorknob. It’s locked. He keeps running. The woman is getting closer. 

The seventh door to the right is open – he bursts through the doorway and slams the door. He fumbles with the lock, breathing hard. The woman is inches away, blocked by a steel frame. 

Her gun goes off – she’s shooting the hinges off the door. Sherlock looks around, frantic. There are no other doors to run through, no way out. There are no closets to hide in, no tables to crawl beneath. He is surrounded by four walls of computers. 

He faked his own death, only to die five weeks later. Really, Sherlock Holmes? 

“Is this the best you could do?” he asks himself, suddenly furious. The gun goes off again, and a bullet finds the last hinge holding up the door. The woman kicks out, her foot clashing against the steel. The door crashes with a tremendous clang, making Sherlock’s ears ring, and then the woman enters the room. 

Sherlock throws his arms up. 

“I don’t know who you are, but – “ he begins, and then stops, because that is when an alarm fires off. It rings like a siren, from every room on the floor, deafening, and both he and the woman cover their ears. They face each other, both realizing at the same time that the other has no idea what’s going on. 

The computers all flash red. 

The alarm keeps ringing, like the incessant warning. But a warning of _what?_

_Files 324/8000 deleted._ The text writes itself across all of the computer screens, displayed dozens of times. 

_Files 451/8000 deleted._

The woman steps forward, making Sherlock back away. She picks up her gun, but doesn’t press the trigger. 

_Files 894/8000 deleted._

She throws herself at Sherlock, and he spins, avoiding her – 

_Files 2196/8000 deleted._

\- until she straightens back up and swings her gun at him. 

_Files 4087/8000 deleted._

He turns his head, so rather than receiving blunt trauma to the skull he receives a nasty blow to the jaw. 

_Files 6302/8000 deleted._

He stumbles, seeing black dots. The woman is yelling something at him. What is she saying? What is she – 

_Files 7024/8000 deleted._

– oh. She’s saying, “Shut down the system!” 

He can’t. He doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know what’s happening. 

_Files 7289/8000 deleted._

She’s shaking him violently, making his head rock, but she’s not trying to kill him. 

“Shut down the system!” 

_Files 8000/8000 deleted._

The computer screens turn blank. The alarm abruptly switches off. The room is dark, unnervingly silent again.

“I don’t –" Sherlock begins. The woman punches him in the face. 

“Are you the key maker?” she shouts. The words are heavily accented. 

“No,” he gasps, clutching his eye, and realizes immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. 

“You’re not? Were you a _distraction?”_ Cursing in Russian, she grabs the front of his neck and slams him against a wall. He punches, but she dodges easily, and then he feels the cold tip of her gun press against his temple. Her finger reaches the trigger. 

The gun goes off. 

The woman’s grasp on his neck loosens. Her lips part, as if in mild surprise, and her dark eyes widen. And then she stumbles back and sways. Sherlock watches, bewildered. The woman collapses like a marionette whose strings have been cut. 

Standing behind her is Dr. Madder. 

* * * * 

She’s holding a gun with two hands, and those hands are shaking. Her entire body trembles so much that Sherlock thinks she might fall. Slowly, she lowers her arms. And blinks. 

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” she says. She looks down at the woman between them, who landed on her stomach, limbs sprawled. There’s a solid bullet mark in her back; a circle of red rushes from it. “She’s quite dead, don’t you agree?” Her words are light, but her voice wavers. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks. He sees that she’s not, and hates asking pointless questions. But this is the only way he knows how to show concern. 

Dr. Madder ignores him. “I owe you an apology. I had hoped to give you at least a full week of rest, but my work here was urgent. Of course, I don’t recall asking to you follow.” She manages a weak smile. “Well then. You made an excellent distraction, didn’t you? I should have tipped you more in the taxi.” 

She turns around. She’s swaying a bit on her toes, like she might faint, but she begins to walk out of the room. As she exits the doorway, she says something so softly that only someone with senses as keen as Sherlock’s could hope to hear her: “No, Mr. Holmes. I’m not alright.” 

* * * * 

Sherlock thinks of John and Irene Adler. He watched them both kill people – John more than once. Neither ever seemed to care. It was an odd reaction, he knew. But he attributed the apathy to John’s military past and Irene’s psychopathy. Dr. Anabelle Madder is neither a soldier nor a psychopath. 

Sherlock and her ride home in silence. During the ride she puts a wad of crumpled yen in his hand; her intentions become apparent as soon as they reach the house in Sakae-mura, when she runs inside, leaving him to pay the cabbie. 

Sherlock slips his shoes off in the foyer, hearing her get sick in the bathroom. Not sure why he’s doing so, he follows her. He finds her clutching either side of the toilet, perspiration dripping down her face. Tears, too, he thinks. 

She kneels and he stands in silence. Once she's finished, she flushes the toilet and leans, wobbling, against the bathroom sink. She begins to wash her mouth out. Sherlock doesn’t know why he’s watching. He doesn’t understand why she’s letting him. He tried watching John vomit once; he’d caught a nasty stomach virus from a patient in the clinic. John had slammed the bathroom door in his face, which was understandable. Maybe Dr. Madder just doesn’t notice he’s here. 

She disproves that theory by addressing him. 

“I am quite ashamed,” she whispers, looking into the depths of her sink. 

“Don’t be,” he says. “People get sick all of the time, perfectly normal bodily – ” 

“Not that,” she says. Then gives a small smile. “My getting sick just makes us even.” 

He’s about to ask what she means, but then realizes that she must have seen him in some nasty states while he was sick in Ethiopia. He frowns. 

“I gave myself permission to kill her,” she says. “I mean, not this morning. Months ago. I thought that, somehow…that would make it less difficult. But it hasn’t helped.” 

No matter what Sherlock says, he knows he’s not unfeeling. Rather, he prefers to actively choose what to feel, rather than letting his emotions control his actions. In most of Sherlock’s experiences, he has the choice to feel an emotion connected to a person, or an emotion connected to his work. He can feel bad for the mother that was murdered under mysterious circumstances, or he can feel energized at the thought of solving her case. Sherlock Holmes may feel both emotions, in fact, but he will always _act_ on the latter. 

So in this particular scenario, curiosity  > concern. 

“Who was she?” Sherlock asks. 

“Halinka Gromov,” she answers. She grabs a nearby washcloth and wipes off her mouth. “She was Jim Moriarty’s right hand woman.” 

“And she was after…something. Something you prevented her from obtaining.” 

_Are you the key maker?_ she’d asked. 

And then it clicks. Sherlock’s mind leaps. Images and words flash through it, all piecing together to make a revelation: 

1\. The mathematical books in the house. 

2\. Dr. Madder’s smile when he told her she’s a translator. 

3\. Months and months before, in the familiar flat he misses so much, when a certain criminal mastermind told him, _“In a room of locked doors, the man with the key is king…”_

“The key that can unlock any computer in the world,” Sherlock says, “it doesn’t exist. It’s never existed.” 

“I wish that were true, Mr. Holmes. Very much,” Dr. Madder says solemnly. 

“Moriarty broke into Pentonville Prison, the Bank of England, and the Tower of London.” Sherlock is speaking quickly. “He told me it was daylight robbery.”

“Well, when my brother stole Mr. Moriarty’s phone, Mr. Moriarty could scarcely admit to having simply _lost_ the code, could he?” Dr. Madder asks. A moment goes by, and Sherlock smiles. 

“No,” he breathes. “He couldn’t.” 

Dr. Madder mirrors none of Sherlock’s excitement, offers no congratulations for him having worked out the information. She can’t even meet his gaze. 

Oh, right. She killed a person and is upset about it. 

Is she still on _that?_ Sherlock feels like that was ages ago. 

“So you're a cryptographer. Which means you likely know who made the key code…” Sasaki Facilities, he remembers. That's where they’d been. “You know Mr. Sasaki.” 

For some reason, Dr. Madder chuckles. “Yes. We’re well acquainted.” 

“And Mr. Sasaki developed the key code that can unlock…anything, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you have the means to introduce me to Mr. Sasaki?” Sherlock asks. 

“You would like to meet him?” Dr. Madder finally looks at him. 

“Very much so.” 

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” she says, and holds out her right hand, “it’s a pleasure. But please. Just call me Dr. Madder.” 


	5. Dr. Madder's Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I knew that Moriarty was not the only man who had sworn my death. There were at least three others whose desire for vengeance upon me would only be increased by the death of their leader." -Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Empty House

Sherlock Holmes sits cross-legged at the end of his futon, his bare toes touching the tatami mats that cover the floor. The air is cold and still, allowing for the sound of his measured, long breaths to scratch off the walls of the room. He holds his face in his hands, nose pressed into his palm. He tugs at his curls, twirls his fingers around them, so deep in thought he doesn’t notice that the curls are no longer there. He waits until his thoughts float, like freefalling sheets of loose-leaf, to the sunken depths of his brain. Until the thoughts have settled, he cannot concentrate on any particular problem. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for lucidity. 

It’s his morning routine. 

Problem: It’s not morning. 

Well, it is. But it’s one of the lonesome hours of morning that are good for nothing except discreet murders in back alleys. It’s 3 A.M., and Sherlock doesn’t usually wake until sunrise. He hasn’t noticed the time, though, or the darkness seeping through the windows of his bare room. He remains oblivious until his head-clearing process finishes. 

Once it does, Sherlock looks up. With his brain in a more manageable state, he’s able to take note of what his transportation is up to. 

He becomes aware of a racing heart. Perspiration is leaking down his neck, underarms, and groin area. He has stuttered breathing, now that his lungs aren’t under his careful control. Shaking hands. 

He’s in a state of arousal. That’s his physiological reaction, but what emotion triggered it? 

_Fear,_ his subconscious murmurs. 

Fear. Why? He hasn’t been awake long enough for something to happen – 

Oh. He remembers. 

He had a _nightmare._

Yes, yes. He remembers now. He dreamt he was John, walking down the halls of Sasaki Facilities. It’d been very realistic – his line of vision had even descended by several inches, and he swears his left shoulder thrummed out a dull ache. He had been looking for his friend but couldn’t find him, at least not for a long time. He was under the impression that he’d been walking through the Sasaki Facilities for hours, being watched by those great grey walls, but you know how dreams are. They skip to the important bits. (Sherlock likes dreams for that.) So he’d found himself, as John, in the heart of Sasaki Facilities. Not sure what “in the heart” means. It was simply that. It was the heart, the epicenter, the middle room, the cheese in the center of the maze, and – 

Yes. He’d found his friend there. 

Sherlock Holmes, laying on the floor face first. He – John – walked into the room, reached his hand out – 

_He’s **my** friend. _

\- and turned him over. The black-haired detective was decomposed. He’d been rotting in the heart of Sasaki Facilities for weeks. His tissues had been stripped away, exposing flashes of yellowed bone. His skin was blackened and bloodless, and he was feeding the maggots with the whites of his eyes. His sockets were empty, exposing the soft, grey brain inside. He was a corpse. Nothing more. 

The detective had been a liar after all. He wasn’t a god, he was a fraud. A mortal. A man.

A gunshot went off, making John jump. He looked at Sherlock, the liar. 

Sherlock Holmes had just been shot. He’d just died, a fresh bullet wound in his still-warm skin, his eyes glossed over and pale. John looked up. 

Dr. Madder was standing in the doorway, a gun in her two hands. 

“Did I kill your friend?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. He had John’s voice. 

“Oh. Sorry about that.” 

* * * *

That was when Sherlock had woken up. Now he grabs his phone from his pajama pants pocket (not _his_ pajama pants – the unidentified male,the likely boyfriend), and sends a text.

(3:08 A.M) _I’m not decomposing._

The response from the phone company is instantaneous: 

(3:08 A.M.) _We’re sorry, but the number you have texted cannot be reached._

He sends another text to John’s number, over and over again, as if one of the texts will somehow slip through Mycroft’s infuriating block and find their way to 221B. 

(3:08 A.M.) _I’m not decomposing._

(3:08 A.M.) _I’m not decomposing._

(3:09 A.M.) _I’m not decomposing._

(3:09 A.M.) _I’m not decomposing_

The default texts are sent back to his phone, but he ignores them. He almost ignores the ensuing text of Mycroft’s too, out of sheer stubbornness, but eventually reads: 

(3:10 A.M.) _You realize his phone is not currently on his person now, yes?_

No, Sherlock hadn’t realized that. Obviously. How was he supposed to know? 

(3:10 A.M.) _Did you nick his phone, you git?_

(3:10 A.M.) _Don’t be absurd. John is in jail._

Sherlock pauses. Jail? Jail for what? What could John, the doctor, the war hero, possibly have done? Unless Mycroft had locked him up “for his own safety.” Sherlock wouldn’t put it past his brother. 

(3:11 A.M.) _Why is he in jail?_

(3:11 A.M.) _Surely you recall that he assaulted the Chief Superintendent of Scotland Yard?_

Oh. _That._ But that had been so long ago, and besides… The Chief Superintendent had been an idiot. Surely that fact made John’s punch somehow less illegal? 

(3:12 A.M.) _Get him out,_ Sherlock says. Should be a simple enough task for Mycroft. 

(3:12 A.M.) _I got his sentence shortened to 3 months._

(3:12 A.M.) _I said: Get him out._

(3:12 A.M.) _3 months in a structured environment is what he needs._

Sherlock snorts. Piss off, Mycroft. 

(3:13 A.M.) _Get him out._

(3:13 A.M.) _You’ve put him through a lot._

That makes Sherlock pause. Three months… Dr. Madder had hinted that she had a shorter way to crush Moriarty’s web. Sherlock pictures arriving home, fresh in London, just as John is released from jail. They'd return to 221B at the same time, meeting at the door. John’s absence would cancel out Sherlock’s, and vice versa, so it would be like no time had passed at all. 

The urge to speak to Dr. Madder overwhelms him. Annoyingly, she’d been in no state to explain much after revealing herself as “Mr. Sasaki,” the maker of the key code. (“Actually, it’s a symmetric-key algorithm,” she’d said.) She’s sleeping now, of course, but Sherlock no longer cares. She contains information and he intends to extract it from her. 

His phone buzzes again. 

(3:14 A.M.) _Would you care to tell me where you are now, dear brother?_

He ignores the text and leaves his bedroom. Across the hall is the door leading to Dr. Madder’s bedroom. He pauses for a moment, feeling the soles of his feet against the cold floor. He’s accustomed to getting a layer of dust caked on his feet whenever he walks across the floor without slippers, but here the floor is too clean. A filter has been built into the walls of the house. It buzzes, lowly. The air is light, refreshing, like a cool glass of water with a lemon slice. He’s half a world away from 221B, and feels it. 

He walks across the hall, turns Dr. Madder’s doorknob, and enters the room. 

She’s not there. 

His spartan guest bedroom is more luxurious than the house’s master bedroom. Dr. Madder doesn’t have a futon. There are no Hokusai paintings on her walls. There is a square, bare-floored space containing a comforter folded neatly against a wall. There is a small wooden bin in the corner of the room, and it holds what appears to be the entire contents of Dr. Madder’s wardrobe. 

Minimalism doesn’t put Sherlock off. Plenty of things to deduce from minimalism. John was a minimalist when he moved in; it meant that he was a soldier, recently returned home, but reluctant to acquire new possessions. It meant that part of him was still in Afghanistan, and it was Sherlock’s job to get him out. Dr. Madder’s minimalism is different. She’s a cryptographer, maybe the best in the world, maybe verging on genius… Maybe Dr. Madder has free-falling thoughts that need settling, too. Maybe those thoughts settle better on bare, clean floors. 

“Trouble sleeping?” Sherlock turns when he hears Dr. Madder’s voice. 

She has a fluffy white towel around her. It protects her modesty but reveals two scarred and muscled arms. Her hair’s wet and dark, brushed back behind her ears. 

"Tell me how you plan to defeat Moriarty’s web,” Sherlock demands. 

_“I’ve_ had trouble sleeping.” Dr. Madder enters the room as if Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “Close your eyes, Mr. Holmes.” 

Impatiently, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. He hears the towel slip off, falling to the floor, as Dr. Madder retrieves some clothes from her wooden bin. 

“Spilling blood is a taboo in Shintoism,” she speaks as she dresses. “The Shinto have cleansing rituals, primarily involving water. Thinking of that, I thought a cold bath might help me.” 

“Did it?” Sherlock asks. 

“Time is the only true antidote to anything Death does not choose to heal,” she says, in a tone more appropriate for comments on the weather. “You can open your eyes now.” 

Dr. Madder wears a black top and black yoga pants. Her back is facing him as she leans over to pick up her towel, and he spots a long, white slash stretching across her right calf. Like someone cut her with the tip of a knife. 

“Tell me your plans,” Sherlock says, keeping his eyes on the cut. Dr. Madder turns on her heels and, in one fluid motion, sinks to the floor and crosses her legs, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 

“Sit,” she says. 

Sherlock remains standing. Dr. Madder rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment. 

“Let’s compare my plans to yours, shall we? _You_ were going to travel the world, seeking out Mr. Moriarty’s terrorist cells one by one,” Dr. Madder begins. “Eventually you would have been discovered. Consider it: Sherlock Holmes dies, and a month later one of the most active cells in Sudan is found? Coincidence, surely. But if similar incidents continued to occur? Mr. Moriarty is one of the brightest men in the world, he can put two-and-two together – ” 

“Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock interrupts. He feels an immature satisfaction in knowing something she doesn’t, for once. 

“You – you killed him?” Her eyes widen. 

“He shot himself,” Sherlock says, remembering. “In the mouth. I believe he thought it would startle me.” 

“Did it?” she asks. 

“A bit,” he admits. 

“He committed suicide… That doesn’t surprise me,” she says. 

“You know him personally?” Sherlock asks. He’s almost positive, but there’s no room for certainty with Dr. Madder. 

“Not important right now.” She swipes her hand as if brushing the topic away. “Although, thank you for the information. This makes my plans even better. You see, Mr. Holmes, you don’t have to crush the entirety of Mr. Moriarty’s web. Only its center. Mr. Moriarty has – _had_ – three top assistants: Ms. Gromov, Mr. Adelbert Gruner, and a certain Englishman by the name of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Both Moran and Gruner are up for trial in England right now – who knows how long the trial will drag on. If they are convicted, Mr. Holmes, then the web will untangle itself. You will be free to return to your life. If they're acquitted, then,” she tilts her head, “you’ll need me.” 

“So you’re suggesting we wait until their trial is over,” Sherlock says. “And do nothing in the meantime.” 

“Not quite. _Your_ problem is Mr. Moriarty’s web. _My_ problem is that I’ve created the world’s most advanced computer code, and if anyone gets their hands on it, then…” Dr. Madder swallows. “We’ll just not consider that right now. The point is that the code needs to be destroyed.” 

“Did you not destroy it last night, in Sasaki Facilities?” Sherlock asks. Why else would she have gone through the trouble of deleting those files, and almost getting Sherlock shot? For what other purpose would she have killed Gromov, after never having killed before? 

“Parts of it. The bulk of it, actually,” she says. “It can no longer simply be stolen as Moriarty stole it – it no longer exists in its whole state.” 

“Ah,” Sherlock says, abruptly understanding. “How long did it take you to create the code, Dr. Madder?” 

“Ten years,” she says. 

“And you were traveling that whole time, weren’t you?” 

“My brother and I were, yes.” 

“Picture this: A genius,” Sherlock begins, linking his hands behind his back (he misses the familiar tug of his tight, buttoned shirts), “fresh from university. Obsessed with computer codes, but _bored_. She wants a change, so she decides to create the ultimate computer code. Something that disregards all security standards. She’s young, though. A naïve optimist. She doesn’t think of the consequences. So she’s unsuspecting with her research. She leaves notes in the margins of textbooks in university libraries. She emails past professors lines of the code that particularly excite her. She’s open, honest. Practically begging for someone like Moriarty to steal her work.” 

As he talks, he paces around her, a small smile playing at his lips. He feels much less baffled by her. No one’s a mystery. Not truly. Not once you’ve been given all the facts. 

“She didn’t expect to one day have to destroy her greatest creation, but now that she has to… she doesn’t know where to start.” 

“And who better to employ than the world’s greatest dead detective, to track all the little bits of code I’ve left scattered across the globe?” Dr. Madder finishes for him. 

“You can’t just find them yourself?” he asks. 

“I’m a cryptographer,” she says. “Not a detective. You’re right, right about everything. I need to hack into my old professors’ email accounts. I need to burn books and files, destroy any evidence of the Sasaki Code, so that it can never be replicated. And I’d like your help.” 

“That’s not the only thing, though.” He’s standing behind her. She doesn’t try to turn and face him, but he can sense her surprise. 

“Isn’t it?” 

“You’re remarkably unsuspicious, Dr. Madder. You wanted to create the Sasaki Code, but not use it. Yet _someone_ in your life has been suspicious. Or else you'd be dead. What is your brother’s name, Dr. Madder?” 

Pause. Then, “Luke. Luke Madder.” 

“Luke came up with the idea of creating an imaginary cryptographer, didn’t he? He built the Sasaki Facilities, and invented false files, making Souta Sasaki real on paper. That way, if the code _was_ discovered, no one could trace it to you. They'd find the nonexistent Mr. Sasaki instead. A precaution.” 

“Yes,” she says. 

“That wasn’t the only precaution he took, was it, Dr. Madder?” 

“You really are good, Mr. Holmes. Very,” she says. “How much have you guessed?” 

“Not guessed,” he says. “Observed. I’ve been listening. Luke Madder traveled with you as you made a living as a cryptographer.” He thinks of her familiarity with Ethiopia. “You’ve done code work in the East, in the Middle East, West Africa… all while developing the invulnerable Sasaki Code on the side. And your brother, what did he do?” 

“Everything,” she says. “He was my John Watson, Mr. Holmes. He even had a blog on us. He was my assistant, my travel agent, my housekeeper.” 

“But he wasn’t kidnapped for housekeeping,” Sherlock says. 

“No,” she says. “He – ” 

Sherlock interrupts. The show-off. Needs to prove that he’s figured it out. “He had you two switch roles. You were always seen together, so _he_ posed as the cryptographer, and you as the housekeeper. Due to your doubtlessly convincing acting, and people's conceptions of gender roles, no one suspected anything. So much easier to believe the older, male sibling in a duo is the mathematical one, isn't it? 

Of course, one day, the Sasaki Code was traced deeper. Mr. Sasaki was discovered to be imaginary, and the hunt for the true cryptographer began. When did Moriarty figure it out? When did he take your brother? After Luke stole Moriarty’s phone?” 

“It wasn’t Mr. Moriarty,” Dr. Madder says. “He was, actually, the only person who has ever suspected _me_ of being the cryptographer. Gromov believed in Mr. Sasaki. Gruner does too. Moran went for my brother. Moran is convinced – _convinced_ – that my brother created the Sasaki Code.” Dr. Madder snorts. “My brother barely knows how to make a Facebook account, let alone create a code that can attack the AES…” 

“So you’re hiring me to find your brother.” Ah, sentiment. Always at the root of things. Sherlock wonders if he should be disappointed. “He’s been taken to a secret location and you want to know where.” 

“Dear god no,” Dr. Madder says, and shudders. Sherlock blinks. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Please,” she says, standing and facing him, “whatever you do, _don’t_ find my brother.” 

“I’m not sure I…” _I’m not sure I understand._ But he can’t say it. He can’t. 

“Even if I knew where he was, there’s nothing I can do for him. He took a risk, posing as the world’s greatest cryptographer. I never made him do it. He chose to. If we found him, they’d probably end up killing me, or him. Or they’d discover you’re alive. Everything would go wrong. As long as he’s locked up and they think he created the Sasaki Code, then you and I are free to continue destroying any remnants of the code that remain.” 

“They’re probably trying to make him create a second Sasaki Code. Torturing him, right now. As we speak.” Doesn't that concern her?

“Probably,” she says. “But they wouldn’t kill him, not if they think he’s the cryptographer. They think they need him to get the code. And no matter how much they torture him, he can’t make the Sasaki Code for them. Because he doesn’t know it. If they tortured _me_ , however…” She looks away. “Then bad things could happen. If they broke me. And I’m not willing to risk that.” 

“You’re letting your brother be tortured in order to protect a computer code,” Sherlock says. It’s logical, actually. It makes sense. He’d do that to Mycroft. But he’s never seen anyone else act so sensibly. She cares about Luke Madder. He can tell. The clothes on his back – they’re not her boyfriend’s. She treated them delicately; a sign of sentiment. They’re her brother’s. This isn’t psychopathy, it’s not coldness. It’s rationality. 

“In order to protect the world,” she corrects him. “More people than my brother will die if Moran gets the Sasaki Code.” 

There’s a pause. She’s not able to look at him. 

Finally she sighs. “Good night, Mr. Holmes. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.” 

“It’s already tomorrow,” he says. 

She looks at the wall automatically, as if there’s a window there. He knows she’s imagining the soon-to-be-rising sun. 

“That just proves my point,” she says. 

“About what?” 

“That it’s going to be a long day.” 


	6. Sigerson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You may have read of the remarkable explorations of a Norwegian named Sigerson, but I am sure that it never occurred to you that you were receiving news of your friend.” –Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of the Empty House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to make this the last time I open a chapter with a dream sequence. :)

Dreams often don’t make much sense, but try to keep up: 

He’s John again. He’s been fighting in Sudan, and the enemy’s just captured him. He’s locked in one of their cells, and for some reason it looks a lot like the computer room in Sasaki Facilities. The enemies are impish and clever; they’ve transformed themselves into shadows, and they flit up his ears and seep into his brain. From the folds of his grey tissues, they’ve dissected all his secrets. His weaknesses. His fears. They’re using everything against him. 

The torture sounds silly, written out like this, but in the dream it is excruciating: They’re making a lot of pointless noise in the cell. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there, making alarms go off, computers buzz. Outside the cell they’ve got a violinist playing. He plays something beautiful, agonizingly beautiful. It’s muddled in the background, but John recognizes the chords, and he knows he’s heard the piece myriad times before. If they would just turn off the damned alarm! Then he could hear the song clearly, and give it a name. It’s right there… Just out of his grasp… If he could only _name_ it, a thousand sweet memories would come flooding back to him. He’s crying, screaming, begging them to turn off the alarm… 

He’s escaped the cell. (Dreams skip the dull bits, but somehow he knows that's what happened.) Outside is a comfortable living room, well-furnished with Rococo chairs and sofas, the flooring covered by Persian rugs. John spots the violinist. 

“Mr. Holmes?” he says in John’s voice. The violinist is Sherlock’s father. He’s dead, of course, and his corpse has been positioned on a canapé. His lifeless legs are sprawled out, toes touching the rug. His head slumps against the violin’s chin rest like it’s too heavy to move. His eyes have rolled to the back of his head and his mouth, which smiled gently in life, is agape and dispelling drool. Only his arms are animated, mechanically scraping the bow across the instrument. The tableau is precisely what it would look like if a violin were given to a zombie. 

It’s Paganini. Caprice No. 24. How had he not recognized that? 

A door opens, making John look away. Dr. Madder comes walking through the doorway. She sees the canapé and frowns. 

“Oh Christ,” she says, displeased. “He just keeps dying, but I don’t know why.” 

He looks back at where the canapé was, but it’s gone now. There’s just a wooden floor, and on it is a dead body. Sherlock Holmes. He’s decomposing rapidly, like a video set on time lapse. John rushes forward, trying to make it stop. He’s got a syringe of formaldehyde in his hand, he needs to inject it, but Sherlock’s already rotting, already falling apart, and the stink, the stink he’s emitting is unbearable – 

Sherlock bolts up. 

He takes a moment, while shrugging out of his sheets, to perform his mind-clearing process. Waits for his thoughts to settle. Once they do, he registers the fact that he had a nightmare. It's like a repeat of earlier this morning. He mentally discards the second nightmare (not important), and sends a couple of texts ( _I’m not decomposing_ ).Then he hears screaming. 

It’s Dr. Madder, from the master bedroom. Sherlock doesn’t move because he’s heard that type of scream before, from John. Dr. Madder’s not in any immediate danger. She’s just had a nightmare.

Obviously he’s not the only one who's spent the morning in Sasaki Facilities. 

Like it had been with John long ago, it doesn’t dawn on Sherlock to go comfort her. He gets out of bed and dresses, wishing for the umpteenth time that Luke Madder owned at least one suit. 

When he goes to the kitchen, Dr. Madder’s already made him tea. 

“The rice is warming up,” she says, handing him a steaming mug. “We’ll have to eat while we work. I’ve booked a plane that departs at six this evening. No time to waste.” 

Sherlock sips his tea. It’s too hot and not sweet enough. She’s put soy milk in it. Damn her. 

She doesn’t notice that he thinks her tea’s crap. Instead she slurps down her own mug and says, “You’ll be needing your phone.” 

He reaches into his pocket. “For Mycroft. Yes.” 

“How much information do you want to tell him?” she asks. 

Sherlock smiles. “As little as possible seems appropriate.” 

* * * * 

“Relax, I’ve dyed eyebrows dozens of times before,” she says. 

(2:09 P.M.) _Do elaborate on this plan?_

“I’m relaxed,” he answers through gritted teeth, and ignores the text from Mycroft.

“You’re not. I can feel how tense you are.”

(2:10 P.M.) _Who is Anabelle Madder, and why would she prove useful to us?_

“You’re standing across the room. How would you know if I’m tense?”

“I can feel it,” she insists, and she leans down to get the sterile eye drops out of her kit. 

(2:10 P.M.) _We had a plan. You were to follow it._

This time Sherlock reaches for his mobile and types out a reply:

(2:11 P.M.): _This plan is better. Trust me._

(2:11 P.M.) _You’ve never given me a reason to trust you._

“Trust me,” Dr. Madder says. For a second Sherlock thinks she’s reading his texts, but she’s still across the room. It inspires him, though, so he types:

(2:11 P.M.) _You can trust Dr. Madder._

Blonde eyebrows. She’s told him that blonde eyebrows are imperative for the disguise she’s planned. What the disguise is, exactly, she has failed to mention.

(2:11 P.M.) _At least tell me where you’ll be going._

Sherlock texts back:

(2:12 P.M.) _Berkeley, California._

“My brother can get us a hotel room,” he says. 

“That would be good. I have a house in Berkeley, but it might not be safe to use it right now,” she says, walking toward him.

“Moran and Gruner may be on trial, but their men are lurking all over the globe, I’m sure,” Sherlock says.

“Well, that. But mainly it’s because my Berkeley house has been rented out to some _very_ radical vegetarians. I don’t exactly trust them.” She shudders, like she’s remembering something. “Now. Close your eyes.” 

He complies, and presses his lips together when a frigid ointment touches his eyelids. 

“Stop twitching,” Dr. Madder says. 

“I’m not,” he snaps.

“You are.” 

“You didn’t think to heat up the ointment?” 

Dr. Madder just laughs. 

* * * * 

He looks at himself in the mirror. If he were on his own, his reflection would induce a paralyzing dissociative experience. He doesn’t look like Sherlock Holmes. His gray eyes have been covered by dull, brown colored contacts. Dr. Madder showed him how to shave his head, so any fuzz he had is entirely gone. His eyebrows are, indeed, blonde, and the skin around them is red and irritated. 

The worst part has to be the scarf. It’s silky, nothing like the cashmere one he left in London, and it’s the most alarming shade of fuchsia he’s ever seen. 

“This is absolutely necessary?” he asks, frowning. 

“Don’t frown,” Dr. Madder says. “Sigerson Bøler _never_ frowns.” 

“No, no, I need to frown,” Sherlock says. “The frowning gives me an edge. Otherwise I look like a walking cliché.”

“Sigerson Bøler never frowns,” Dr. Madder repeats. “You saw your website! You’re cheery!” 

Yes. He’d seen “his” website. 

Sigerson Bøler is one of the most elaborate disguises Dr. Madder and her brother have ever invented. Like Mr. Souta Sasaki, Sigerson Bøler doesn’t exist. But he has a passport and is a filed Norwegian citizen. The papers on him are extensive. 

Luke Madder, before being kidnapped and likely tortured by Moran’s men, had kept a fashion/travel blog for Sigerson Bøler. It is enormously popular and absolutely ridiculous. 

**Bio: Sigerson Bøler**

_Model. Photographer. Trust fund baby (am I not supposed to admit that? LOL). Foodie. Traveler. Lover. I’m like the modern day Ibn Battuta, and this blog is my Rihla. LOL. <3 <3 <3 <3 _

“Why would a gay fashion blogger know who Ibn Battuta is?” Sherlock had asked, after reading the front page of Sigerson’s absurd blog. 

“1. Sigerson is supposed to be friends with the Madders. It was a way for Luke to travel without being spotted. But obviously we’d never befriend a _complete_ idiot. And 2. You must never admit to being gay. Stop saying the ‘g’ word. It’s not in your vocab now, alright?” 

“But he’s clearly gay!” Sherlock had said, indignant. “He couldn’t possibly be gayer!” 

“Stop saying the g-word!” she’d said. “Obviously you are, but you can’t bring yourself to admit it. You’re comically self-repressed. Even though what you are is apparent to the entire world, you strive to be something else.” Sherlock had wished she’d stop using second person. 

“Also,” she had added, “I had an idea. Just a… Just an idea.” 

“What is it?” 

“You text John a lot.” Sherlock had frowned. She must have taken his phone out of his trousers when he’d been changing into tight, purple skinny jeans. “I thought that maybe Sigerson’s blog could be a way for you to communicate with John. Once he’s out of jail, of course.” His frown had deepened. She must have read _all_ of his texts. “If you could get John to read Sigerson’s blog, then he could always know roughly where you are. Without actually knowing it’s you, of course. Then, once our work is done, it’ll be like he hardly missed anything.” 

Sherlock hadn’t admitted it at the time, but the idea appealed to him. He’d agreed to maintain the fashion blog. 

Now he turns away from the mirror to answer a text from Mycroft. 

“Mycroft’s got our hotel booked,” he says. “It’s in San Francisco. We’ll have to make a daily commute to the UC Berkeley.” Dr. Madder says she first began to develop the Sasaki Code at the uni in Berkeley, so they’re traveling there first. 

“Ooh. San Fran used to be the gay capital of the world. It’s perfect for you, Sigerson,” she says. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sherlock murmurs, typing on his phone. “I’m not gay.” 

He can feel Dr. Madder grinning beside him. 

“Mr. Holmes,” she says, grabbing his hand, “in all seriousness, I am very happy to be traveling with you.” 

Sherlock has noticed that whenever Dr. Madder says anything particularly sincere, her Japanese accent becomes heavier than ever. Right now every syllable is precise and clipped. 

Sherlock looks at her for a moment, then heads off toward the foyer, snatching his hand away from hers. 

“Come along,” he says. “Our plane’s leaving soon.” 


	7. Meltdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a job at a bakery. 
> 
> "Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think." -Sherlock, Study in Pink

Sherlock enters the hotel room, a vanilla folder tucked underneath his arm. He closes and bolts the door behind him. Looks toward the window.

“You haven’t moved all day,” he states. He’s gotten nearly used to his Norwegian accent; it’s not so different from feigning a German one.

He’s just returned from the U.C. Berkeley computer labs. He spent the day hacking computers, destroying incriminating books, and telling off pernicious librarians. He hasn’t been so singularly determined and clear-headed since Sudan. Dr. Madder has her back toward him. She’s cross-legged on the floor, arms folded in her lap, meditative. Facing the glass window that spans across the wall and the sliver of orange setting sun that still lingers outside.

“Thinking,” she says.

“Ah,” he says. “I know the…” He was going to say ‘feeling,’ but it’s not a feeling, is it? “I know the act,” he finishes.

She turns her head. “Did you find any information?”

“Of course I did.”

“Would you like to share it?”

“Let’s see… Firstly, most of your email accounts – no, make that all of them – were hacked by Moriarty at the beginning of the year.”

“I figured,” she says.

“And I figured you knew already,” he says. “Also, I’ve done my best to get rid of any remnants of the code that you managed to pass around. Can’t say I was entirely successful. The information’s dispersed around the globe, nearly impossible to completely trace. I was as thorough as is feasible, however. You should be satisfied. Oh, and two of your professors have been selling everything they know about the Sasaki Code to third parties.”

Dr. Madder gapes.  _“What?”_

“Yes. A Professor…Gneze, and a Professor Curtis?”

“They wouldn't do that! They’re my  _friends.”_

“Well, they did.”

For some reason, Dr. Madder looks angry. Specifically, she’s looking at  _him_  angrily. Which wasn’t the reaction he had expected. He’d anticipated relief, a thank you for his genius services.

“I don’t believe you,” she says. “I want proof.”

“The data in this folder should be sufficient.” He tosses the vanilla folder to her. The papers butterfly out, but she collects them.

Silently, he takes off his coat (a pink windbreaker, he doesn’t want to talk about it), throws it on the floor, and sprawls himself out on one of the two beds. He picks up his phone and reads Mycroft’s most recent text.

(7:14 P.M.)  _My people are now following Moran and Gruner’s trial. So far little progress._

 __Useless.

Dr. Madder drops the folder, then flops on her back. Her legs are still crossed, her knees now sticking up in the air.

“I’m an idiot,” she declares to the ceiling.

“Yes,” says Sherlock.

She gives him a dirty look. “Not helping."

“Not trying to,” he says.

She returns to her silence. Sherlock rises and retrieves her laptop from her case; neither of them had a chance to unpack their bags. He has new suitcases that she packed for him, filling them with ‘Sigerson’s’ things. He’s afraid to learn what those things are.

He opens up Sigerson’s blog and clicks ‘new post.’ If he’s going to have to update this, he might as well start now.

He stares at the screen. His website’s format is pink, all pink. Pink background, pink text, pink links. He puts his fingers on the keyboard, finds them fidgeting. Needs his violin so that he can play Paganini's Caprice No. 24. Without that aid, nothing comes to him.

All he wants to do is write to John. _If only you could see me now, John. Or perhaps you wouldn't want to, since you always put so much effort into affirming your heterosexuality when we were together._ No, that won't work. Bit obvious.

How does – _did_ – John do this, all of the time?

_Oh, yes. He was writing about me._  

Maybe writing about yourself is difficult. Luke – posing as Sigerson – blogged mainly about Dr. Madder. Sherlock could do that. He’d learned a lot about Dr. Madder by reading her emails. She and Luke Madder aren’t actually related, for one thing. They were adopted by the same psychologist in New York City. He’d suspected as much – no two biologically-related siblings would have so few complaints about one another.

 _Dr. Madder is missing her big brother,_  he begins. Might as well be honest.

He has almost a full paragraph by the time Dr. Madder’s phone buzzes in her pocket. She looks at the screen just as Sherlock is going back to sprinkle his paragraph with a suitable number of less-than-threes and frowny faces.

“Sigerson,” Dr. Madder says.

“Yes?”

“My friend Margie, one of the Berkeley librarians, said that today my ‘Norwegian friend’ verbally assaulted her, and then tore a book from her hands and ran off with it.” Dr. Madder sits up, a frown pulling at her lips.

“Oh, that,” Sherlock says, continuing to type. “You told me to get rid of any pages of any books you wrote in during your uni years. I went through all the books, but she caught me with one. I had to take it with me. Remind me to dispose of it later.”

“ _All_  the books?” Dr. Madder is momentarily distracted.

“Not all of them, obviously. I narrowed them down by topic, publication date, etc. Still looked through several thousand, though.” A proud smile tugs at his lips. “Like I said before: I was thorough.”

“Sigerson, you could have asked the librarians for help. They would have understood, they all know me. I can’t believe you told off Margie! She’s the sweetest woman!”

Sherlock crinkles his nose. He remembers Margie. He hadn’t noticed her when she first approached, not until she grabbed his book from him.

 _“What do you think you are doing?”_  she had asked him, oddly menacing for a bespectacled woman in a gray cardigan.

“I need to rip out page 517,” he’d said irritably. He'd snatched the book back and tore out the page, shoving it into his pocket.

“That is the property of UC Berkeley!” The woman had been aghast. “How – how dare–”

“How long ago was it?” he’d interrupted.

“How long ago was what?” she’d asked, distracted.

“That your father died? Recently, I’m guessing. Three months? Six months, at most? How did he do it? Was it an overdose, or from the withdrawal?” He saw her story there, written on her sleeves and under her eyes. Obvious.

Her eyes had immediately filled with tears. Typical.

“Who – who are you?” she’d asked.

He’d been very, very tempted to say, “Sherlock Holmes.” But he hadn’t, of course. He’d put his hand on his heart and bowed. In his thickest Norwegian accent, he’d said, “Sigerson Bøler, fashionista extraordinaire!” Then he’d taken off with the book and dashed down the aisle, leaving the woman teary-eyed and gaping behind him.

It’d been funny, at the time.

Now he says, in a soprano, mocking tone, “Ooh! Silly me! I could have asked the  _librarians_  for help!” He pretends to speak to one. “Um, excuse me, could you pretty please help me look for hints of this top secret code my friend made? If we don’t find it people may use it to destroy the world!” His eyes flash and he sits up. When his voice returns to normal, he realizes he’s lost his Norwegian accent: “You need to stop being so naïve. You can’t blurt out our mission to everyone that passes on the street.”

“I know them – ”

“You know your old professors, too,” he says. Then corrects, “Or thought you did.” In case anyone outside can hear him, he manages to use his accent again. _“Secrets,_  Dr. Madder. Secrets keep people safe. You don’t have your big brother to protect you anymore. You need me. Therefore, I am going to proceed in the most efficient manner possible, and you aren’t going to bother telling me when I’ve offended  _librarians.”_

Dr. Madder stands. She walks to the hotel room door and slips on her boots. Sherlock panics for a moment, feels his mouth go dry, is deadly afraid she’s going to say, “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. Obviously this situation isn’t working.”

 _No, no, you can’t leave,_  he thinks.  _Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave._

Instead she says, “I need some air.”

Sherlock wants to shout with glee. This is a perfectly acceptable thing to want. John needed air a lot, but he always came back.

Dr. Madder doesn't even slam the door behind her.

* * * *

She returns a few hours later. “I’m not angry anymore,” she declares, kicking off the boots. Angry? So she  _had_  she’d been angry before? She hadn’t shouted or anything. He's confused.

“That’s good,” is all Sherlock says.

“But I came to a conclusion during my walk.”

Sherlock turns over on his bed, looking at her cautiously. “And?”

“If you want to continue working together, we’re going to have to make several changes,” she says.

Sherlock calculates. Could she actually afford to stop working with him? No, of course not. She  _does_  need him. But she could have more days like today. With him working alone, her staying in the hotel room. Or she could leave him and have him work everything out on his own. She could leave him and have him stranded in his own personal hell, floating amongst his nonsensical dissociations.

“I haven’t made enough changes already?” he asks, gesturing to…himself. Sigerson Bøler.

She smiles. “Disguises are just precautions.”

“What do you propose?”

“I don’t like the way you talked about Margie. Like she didn’t matter just because she’s a librarian,” she says earnestly, taking a seat across from him, on her own bed.

He snorts. “That’s scarcely our biggest concern at the moment, don’t you think?”

“It bothers me,” she says. “I think that you need to…live in the real world.”

“I am,” he says. “I’m right here, Dr. Madder. Please, if you’re not going to make sense, then – ”

“You need to get a job.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Neither blinks.

“I have a job,” he says. “You hired me, or have you already forgotten?”

“Don’t be condescending,” she says. “It’s annoying. You need a  _real_  job, just once. Have you ever been formally employed?”

His heart begins to pound, but outwardly he only rolls his eyes. “Dull. Boring. Predictable. I don’t need a real job, I’m perfectly occupied and productive – ”

“If you don’t I’m leaving.”

He looks at her. Her features convey absolute conviction. She means it. She’s not all wishy-washy like John.

He hates her. He despises her. He almost wants to hurt her.

“Fine,” he says, sitting up. “But this won’t work. I can try, but no one will hire me, I’m not  _likable.”_  He spits out the word like it’s a flaw he’s proud not to have.

“I already got you hired.” She grins. “The bakery three subway stops away owes me a favor. They agreed to take you. And besides – everyone loves Sigerson!” Her smiles wavers. “Besides Margie, now.”

“I’ll try it for a week,” he says. “But this is a complete waste of time. It’s taking away from our – ”

“ – work. I know. But it will add to your character. You’re… You’re a snob, Mr. –” She stops herself and finishes, “Sigerson.”

He glowers.

“So you’ll take the job?”

“A week.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Ask? She’s not asking. He has no choice. “When do I begin?”

“Tomorrow morning.” She sounds so bright and chipper. He hates her.

He hates her.

* * * *

“TWENTY BUTTERED BUNS AND A GINGERBREAD COOKIE,” the fat man with the bald head yells.

“I can hear you from here! I’m only a few feet away!” Sherlock yells back, actually not much quieter than his boss.

A customer rings the bell on the counter.  _Ding!_

 __“Excuse me, sir. I’m ready for you to take my order!”

“One moment!” Sherlock shouts, but the man can’t seem to hear him. He keeps ringing the damn bell.

The radio is playing, too, in speakers right above Sherlock’s head. He can’t help but hear the lyrics.

_Hey, I just meant you_

_and this is crazy,_

_but here’s my number,_

_so call me, maybe?_

__“I’m ready, sir, I know my order!”

Sherlock squats down, stepping on his apron. He readjusts his feet, eyes scanning the ovens frantically. Damn it. Damn it. Where the hell are the gingerbread cookies?

_Ding! Ding! Dingdingding!_

“Sir? Sir, I’m ready with my order!”

“One moment!” Sherlock shouts over his shoulder. He spots the gingerbread cookies and, with a gloved hand, grabs them and shoves them into a white paper bag. Half of them crumble in his fist.

 _Ding! Ding!_ He fetches the buttered rolls. By the time he reaches the cash register, he finds his line has doubled.

_You took your time with the call,_

_I took no time with the fall -_

__“Who ordered the buttered rolls and gingerbread cookies?” Sherlock asks. A fat woman steps up, taking out her wallet. “That will be $11.90,” he says, calculating the tax in his head. His eyes dart around at all the buttons on the cash register. He pokes some random ones to make the thing pop open and takes out the proper amount of cash, already predicting that she’s going to hand him three fives.

“Thank…you,” the woman says, a little unnerved when she’s handed her change before he takes her money.

“Yes, yes, now get out!” he yells, shoving the bags at her.

“I only ordered  _one_  gingerbread cookie,” she says. He snatches the cookie bag back, opens it, and pours most of the cookies into the trashcan by his feet. He pushes the bag back in her hand.

“This cookie is broken – ”

_“GET OUT!” _he snaps. The woman whimpers and retreats.__

_Ding! Ding! Ding!_

____Sherlock twirls to the man by the bell, flashing him his best, biggest smile. It shows all of his teeth and makes him look like a grizzly bear._ _

__“May I take your order?” he says._ _

_It’s hard to look right at you, baby -_

____“I’d like a –”_ _

_\- but here’s my number_

_so call me, maybe?_

____By the time Sherlock can focus on anything other than the infernal speaker over his head, he realizes that the man has already finished his order._ _

__“Repeat that, I didn’t get it,” he says._ _

__“I. SAID,” the man now shouts and over enunciates every word for some reason, “THAT. I. WOULD. LIKE. THREE. PINK. FROST. ED. COOK. IES. AND. A. BOT. TLE. OF. WAT. ER.”_ _

__“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly, to make a point. But as he turns around he hears the man murmur to the customer behind him, “Honestly, I don’t understand why everyone’s hiring these _foreigners._ If you can’t understand a word of English, then you shouldn’t work in America.”_ _

_Before you came into my life_

_I missed you so bad -_

____By the time Sherlock retrieves the bottle of water, the boss has gotten impatient and is shouting the next customer’s order at him._ _

__“PICKUP FOR CHEESECAKE. PICKUP FOR CHEESECAKE.”_ _

__“I CAN HEAR YOU,” Sherlock says, and gets to the cash register. “That’s $6.19,” he tells the man who over enunciated. He gets the change ready and looks up, waiting. The man’s struggling to find his wallet in his briefcase._ _

__“Honestly,” Sherlock hisses, and he leans over the counter and grabs the man’s briefcase._ _

__“Hey!”_ _

__Sherlock finds the wallet, shoves the man’s change in it, and retrieves a ten. “Have a nice day!” he says, smiling falsely, and hands back the briefcase._ _

__“You can’t just – ”_ _

__But Sherlock’s already looking around for that cheesecake. The song on the radio switches._ _

_Yeah, uh-huh, you know what it is_

_Black and yellow, black and yellow -_

____Immediately, this song is ten times worse than the last one. Panicking, Sherlock looks at his boss, who’s mixing flour, and says, “Can we turn off the radio?”_ _

__The man just laughs._ _

_Yeah, uh-huh, you know what it is_

_Black and yellow, black and yellow -_

____And then, _Ding! Ding!__ _

____“Sir! I’m in a rush and I’ve gotta make this order!” A blonde woman in huge sunglasses, obviously from L.A., is waving a wad of cash above her head. “Can you hurry up?”_ _

__“Please, sir, I need that cheesecake for my daughter’s birthday party – ”_ _

_Ding! Ding! Dingdingding! -_

_There are so many rocks in my watch_

_I can't tell the time_

_Black and yellow, black and yellow -_

_Ding! Ding!_

____“A COFFEE, SIGERSON. THIS LADY NEEDS A COFFEE.” That’s the boss._ _

_Black and yellow, black and yellow –_

____Frantically, Sherlock grabs the man’s cheesecake from the back, holds in with one arm, turning it on its side so that it falls against its lid, and dashes to the coffee machine. He pours a steaming cup of coffee, skips the milk, sugar, and lid, and dashes to the counter.__

__“TAKE THE DAMN CAKE! IT’S ON THE HOUSE!” he roars in his English accent, and he throws the cake at the man. “AND HERE’S YOUR COFFEE. WAS I FAST ENOUGH?”_ _

__He throws the steaming coffee at the woman in the same second. The man yells in indignation as the lid splits open, splattering cake all over his suit, but the woman screams in agony._ _

_Black and yellow, black and yellow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta reader, if anyone's up for that. 
> 
> And sorry this chapter took so long. I'm not sure if this story sucks or not, honestly. But I like writing it.
> 
> Also, the songs that played in the bakery:  
> Call Me Maybe by Carly Rae Jepsen  
> Black and Yellow by Wiz Khalifa


	8. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes the chords were sonorous and melancholy. Occasionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughts which possessed him ... " -Watson, A Study in Scarlet

“Valesne?” he asks. “Tu bonus es?” He’s leaning over Sherlock, dark eyebrows furrowed in concern. His rounded spectacles are falling off the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had always wanted his father’s nose; it was long and straight and imperious. The nose of a philosopher. Sherlock had gotten his cheekbones, but that’d never felt like enough. When he was a child he used to fantasize about crawling into his father’s skin, or slipping it on, like a costume. Except a costume he’d never take off, and he’d be Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes forever.

“Salveo,” Sherlock manages to slur. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his jaw stiff and aching.

“What was that?” It’s not his father’s voice. He’s not sure he ever heard his father speak English. He recognizes the voice, though. Is it his mother?

“Sigerson, did you say something?”

Who is Sigerson…?

Oh.

_Oh._

Sherlock bolts up, and puts on his Norwegian accent. “Where am I?”

When he opens his eyes, he finds the room is dark. He’s in a soft chair, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He throws it off of himself and stands. “Please, sit down.” It’s Dr. Madder. He can see her silhouette coming toward him.

He collapses back into the seat. Not because she asked him to, but because he’s exhausted. He’s trembling, and suddenly wishes he hadn’t dropped that blanket so quickly.

“Where am I?” he repeats.

“A police station, Mr. Bøler.” Dr. Madder doesn’t say this. There’s a police officer standing beside her. Sherlock can tell from his authoritative tone. “Can I turn on the lights?”

“Why are they off?” Sherlock asks, although in fact the darkness relieved him.

“Anabelle thought it might…help,” the police officer says. He says this in a tone that would make any eavesdropper think he’s trying to converse with a scared, possibly dangerous, animal.

“Can you remember what happened, Sigerson?” Dr. Madder asks kindly. Far too kindly. Sherlock is suspicious.

“Of course I can,” he spits. “The bakery…”

He’d forgotten himself for a moment. He’d been so upset, and he hadn’t understood _why._ Which is to say, he knew that it was the music, and the customers, and the haste with which he was forced to do everything (and the way everyone else was so _slow_ ), and that damn bell, etc. But why was he being forced to do that? Why had he agreed to do that? It’d been too much – it’d made him furious. There hadn’t been anything wrong with him. Rather, the world had been quaking, tectonic plates suddenly splitting apart from one another, the planet itself tearing right in the middle. He’d been standing in its center, whole while it insisted on being otherwise, and he’d done what had made sense, at the time.

“How is she?” Sherlock asks quietly. The woman from L.A. on whom he’d thrown the coffee. Jesus. What had he been thinking? Not thinking, obviously. He panics for a moment. Does this mean he’s insane?

A police station.

Is he a criminal now? Wildly, he thinks that Moriarty predicted this, knew he’d freak out in a bakery in California, knew he’d be locked up. Is this his fall? He hadn’t realized that, somewhere inside, he is still waiting for his fall.

“Fine,” Dr. Madder says, and sniffs. “Honestly, I saw it. Went to visit her in the E.R. She was overdramatic about it. The coffee just splashed her toes a bit – she’s fine.”

Sherlock relaxes into his chair. He hadn’t realized he’d been tense.

“What’s my charge?” Sherlock asks, then corrects: “What are my charges?”

“No charges,” the police officer says. “You’re free to go as soon as you’re ready.”

“But I…I threw coffee at that woman. _Intentionally.”_ Sherlock remembers more. “I punched the baker and resisted arrest, and I’m not being charged with anything?”

The police officer gives Dr. Madder a look, seeming unsure of what to say. Dr. Madder finally says, “Gary here has been nice enough not to file this particular…incident. Are you ready to go, Sigerson?”

Sherlock stands, deciding it’s best not to question these strokes of good luck. At least not until he’s a safe distance from the police station. He can tell Dr. Madder’s hiding something.

Before the three of them leave the room, Gary says, “Dr. Madder, I need you to sign a few forms. They need to be signed within thirty days, but if now is convenient, would you…?”

“Of course,” Dr. Madder says, and she gives Sherlock a glance. “Do you want to wait out in the hall?”

He nods, just a jerk of his head, and leaves.

God dammit. He’s still wearing the ridiculous apron. He unties it, taking note of the offices on either side of him. He hears indistinguishable murmuring from the one he just left; they’re trying to be discreet. He grows even more suspicious, but before he can creep directly outside the door, in hope of catching a clear word or two, he hears loud voices from another office across the hall.

“Thought he’d nearly kill someone, state he was in,” a man is saying.

“I was almost going to suggest a tranquilizer myself,” another agrees.

“I never knew aspies could get so violent, did you?” the first may says.

“An aspie?”

“Like the baker boy. Someone with _Asperger’s.”_

“Ooh, I see,” the second man says, but Sherlock’s stopped listening.

There are two possibilities. Either Dr. Madder told a very excellent lie in order to get him out of an arrest, or Dr. Madder thinks he has Asperger’s.

She exits the office a few minutes later. He’s hoping that on the tube back to the hotel she’ll boast of the lie she told and they can have a laugh about it. Then he can pretend, during a brief, pathetic handful of seconds that tick by too quickly, that her laughter sounds like John’s.

As soon as he sees her face he knows this won’t happen. She’s carefully composed, like she’s looking at something fragile. A fine piece of porcelain, perhaps. Or someone mental.

“Do you want a hug?” she asks carefully.

“No,” he sneers, disgusted by the thought. He turns around and begins walking away.

“Sigerson, wait,” she says, but he doesn’t stop. She follows him outside the station. As soon as they’re on the pavement, he says, “Don’t bother worrying about me. Because I’m fine and I don’t have,” he snorts, _“Asperger’s.”_ ‘What an absurd notion,’ his tone implies.

“Can we talk about this at the hotel?” she asks.

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m fine,” he says coldly, and continues striding down the block.

On the tube, while they’re sitting next to each other, she brings it up again.

“Have you ever seen a doctor, Sigerson?”

Sort of.

 _“We’re afraid that if your son doesn’t begin receiving weekly therapy sessions, he will no longer be permitted to attend our school.”_ That’s what the headmaster of his boarding school had told Mummy, a week before she’d pulled him out of the school and decided that father would homeschool him. Mycroft had been furious with her, but she was possibly the only person in the world Mycroft could never intimidate. Especially back then.

Then there’d been the psychiatrist in rehab. But she’d been an idiot.

“Yes,” he answers, honestly. “Once.”

“Did she or he give you any type of…diagnosis, Sigerson?”

Ah, the rehab therapist. She’d _hated_ him. Had been determined to diagnose him with _something_ to make his life hell. What she hadn’t realized was that he’d pre-picked the mental illness he wanted her to diagnose him with. He’d looked up its symptoms and displayed each of them in her office, had illustrated a false history to give her even more evidence. They’d verbally sparred back and forth, and she always assumed herself to be in a position of power over him, but she’d never known that she’d played directly into his hands. Given him just what he’d always wanted: Armor. 

“Yes, she did,” he says. “I’m a diagnosed sociopath.”

He waits for her to shrink away from him, to suddenly forget every ounce of sentiment he may have accidentally revealed to her, and to clench her teeth like Sally Donovan and say, _“Freak.” _It would feel good. Sociopathy is his protection, the excuse he’s used countless times before to explain his various quirks and social inabilities. Something that provokes fear and not pity.__

 _Ah, that’s it, Freak,_ Dr. Madder will say. _You threw steaming hot coffee at a woman because you’re a heartless bastard._

 _Yes,_ he’ll say. _You’re finally catching on._

__Instead she snorts. His eyes widen and he looks at her. She breaks out into a fit of giggles. Those giggles turn to laughter and people begin to look at her. Her brown eyes twinkle with some joke that’s lost on him and he demands that she tell him what’s humorous._ _

__“Crap doctor you had, don’t you agree?”_ _

__“She was one of the most expensive psychiatrists in England,” he says. Which is true – Mycroft wouldn’t tolerate anything less - but, yes, she had been utter crap.__

Anabelle’s grin wavers. “Wait. You don’t actually believe that her diagnosis was correct, do you?” 

 

__“Of course I do,” he snaps. He’s not sure if this is just because his lie has become, over the years, reflexive, or if he really does believe it, now. “I don’t need a psychiatrist to illuminate the obvious, anyway. It’s quite apparent what I am.”_ _

__“I think you’re someone who really misses their home,” Dr. Madder says softly, and puts her hand over his, “and maybe you’re having a hard time coping with that.”_ _

__He snatches his hand away like her touch burns. It practically does. Or, at least, makes him feel claustrophobic. He stands._ _

__“I’m fine,” he spits, and the tube slows, coming to a halt. He stalks out the exit before she can follow, getting off at the wrong stop. He doesn’t care. He knows what’s going to happen before it does; plans for it. Wants it, almost. To forget his indignation. Humiliation._ _

__He makes it up the steps of the station, to fresh air, before he completely loses his grasp. Then everything becomes a long, dissociative blur. The pavement seems to float above him, or perhaps he’s floating above it. Maybe everything is melting together, mixing like swirls of colored paint. The voices that pass him are disconnected from bodies. He’s stumbling amongst a horde of muttering specters, stumbling for hours and hours, until his shoes have split apart and his toes are bleeding. Finally he collapses against a pole on a street corner, feeling weak. He doesn’t have a coat. Berkeley is cold, with its drafty micro-climates; he feels goose bumps creeping along his skin. He shivers._ _

__“You lost, kid?” A single voice manages to be heard over all the nonsensical chattering that Sherlock is processing. He pulls his head up, forces his eyes open. A woman in her mid-sixties is standing in front of him, smoking a… He sniffs. Smoking a joint._ _

__“Yes,” he says, alarmed when his accent wavers, his English pronunciation revealed. He clears his throat and launches into a Norwegian accent again, and she’s so high that she doesn’t notice the difference. “Could you help me find my way to my hotel?”_ _

__“Of course, kid,” she says sympathetically. She reminds him, somehow, of Mrs. Hudson, even though Mrs. Hudson would never walk the streets braless, and the thought of her huffing away at a joint is absurd. “Here, take my arm, you’re not looking so good. And bear with me. I’m high out of my mind right now.”_ _

__She laughs and, once he loosely grasps her arm, begins walking._ _

__“Wait,” he says. “You don’t know the address.”_ _

__“Oh yeah,” she says. “Well, what is it?”_ _

__He’s too disoriented to remember, but he thinks to take out his phone; his brother texted him the address so that he and Dr. Madder could take a taxi to it from the plane yesterday._ _

__“Mm, nice hotel,” the woman sighs when she hears the address. “Where you from, kid? Germany?”_ _

__“Norway,” he says._ _

__“Ah, shit. Gotta be cold in Norway,” she says. She talks endlessly for blocks and blocks. He wonders whether she’s too out of it to navigate through the city, but she insists that she’s a Berkeley native. She knows where she’s going. Her garrulousness doesn’t irritate him, although under normal circumstances it would. Right now it grounds him. Keeps him stuck to reality._ _

__* * * *_ _

__He must have been walking longer than he’d thought; he hadn’t noticed that the sky is dark until he enters his hotel room, and finds Dr. Madder sleeping on her bed. He treads lightly, not wanting to wake her and hear her accusations, and he finds a pair of Sigerson’s flamboyant pajamas in his suitcase. Dr. Madder, he sees, has already unpacked her things and folded them neatly into the drawers of the hotel dresser. She had tried to wait up for him; the hotel room’s Bible is on the bedside table. She’d gotten bored of organizing her things, left one unpacked suitcase on Sherlock’s bed, and tried to read the book of Genesis. Hadn’t gotten far. Next to the Bible, cold room service is waiting for him. Looks like lasagna with a side of broccoli._ _

__Sherlock almost thinks that this is a kind gesture, for Dr. Madder to have ordered food for him, until he remembers that she probably did it out of pity. Disgusted, he switches off the light and makes to crawl into bed without eating. He picks up the suitcase, but quickly realizes it’s too hard to be luggage. He strokes his fingers across it; he knows what it is, already. Would recognize it anywhere._ _

Heart hammering in his ears, his fingers find the two silver, metal snaps in the dark. He opens the case, feels the plush lining, runs his fingers over four, stranded strings. He picks up the violin. He holds it in his hands, feeling its lightweight balance. It’s not _his_ violin, not his Stradivarius, but it is _a_ violin. One of high quality.

__Dr. Madder didn't get this violin after the police station. That doesn’t make sense. She’d taken time to unpack all her clothes, read, eat a proper meal. Going from her breathing, she’s been asleep for hours already. There wouldn’t have been time to go out and buy an expensive violin. Which means that she bought this before, while Sherlock was struggling at the bakery._ _

__But how had she known to…?_ _

__Paganini Caprice No. 24. He’d been tapping his fingers to it yesterday, in the hotel room. Had she noticed? Had she really been that observant?_ _

__Sherlock feels strangely flattered. He feels a funny flutter in his stomach, isn’t quite sure why. With no further hesitation (any concern of not waking Dr. Madder doesn’t cross his mind in his eagerness), he hoists his new violin into his left arm. Finds the bow, tucked into the case. Flips it in his hands once, and drags it, slow and steady, across the strings._ _

_Aaah._ The sound that quavers from the instrument is a release. He breathes into it, feeling his way through the new instrument. He plays random notes for several minutes. Not music, quite. Allows the notes to float through the air haphazardly, stumbling into each other with no rhythm, all colors of chaos, like his walk through the city. They’re lost, unbound, ungrounded, dizzying but exhausted. He pours his entire night into the violin and then, once he’s gotten it all out, he launches into Paganini Caprice No. 24.

__The feeling he gets is a less potent form of right when he solves a case, and all the facts have abruptly pieced together in his mind; the perfect puzzle, complete. It’s when logic clicks and he’s offered a glimpse through the lens of lucidity. It’s like being God, just for a little while._ _

__When he ends the piece, he practically wants to weep with the catharsis he feels. It’s all been building up for weeks and weeks, and all he needed was this, just this, just this bow in his hands, just these notes sounding out, each a confirmation that he is here, he is real, he is…_ _

__“You’re great,” Dr. Madder says from her bed, voice laden with sleep. “Best 3 A.M. wakeup call I’ve ever had.”_ _

__He’s in such a blissful mood that he’s willing to put aside how angry he is with her, how much he dreads the coming morning, when she will insist that they find him a therapist, or when she tries to get him to talk about feelings he doesn’t have words to describe._ _

__He nearly says it._ _

__“Thank you,” he nearly says, and not just for the compliment. For the violin, too. Hell, for the cold meal on the bedside table._ _

__“Th – ” he begins._ _

__“Sh,” she says. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not awake after all. I’m sleeping and I haven’t heard a thing. Good night, Sigerson.”_ _

__“Good night,” he says instead, a bit relieved._ _

__He plays a couple more pieces, most random and unfinished, until a hotel guest in the room next to them begins to knock on their wall. Then Sherlock tucks his new instrument into its case and sets it lovingly on the floor. He crawls into bed, feeling strangely relaxed for someone who had a horrible day._ _

__“And Sherlock?” Dr. Madder speaks up again. Before he can answer, she says, “Sh, sh. I’m really still asleep. So don’t answer, or I might wake up. But I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. About making you go to the bakery. If it helps, I honestly thought it’d be good for you. But that doesn’t make what I did okay. You’re an adult and I will never make you do something against your will again. I hadn’t realized I was pushing you into that so forcefully, but now I understand.”_ _

__Sherlock doesn’t answer, just listens. And he can barely do that, because he’s exhausted and already drifting off to sleep. His mind is wonderfully muddled and slow, like it’s running through water. In fact, it isn’t until she finishes speaking that he realizes she called him Sherlock._ _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the inevitable inaccuracies with the Latin. Sherlock's father should basically be asking him if he's okay, and Sherlock should be confirming that he is.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. :)


	9. Dorm Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which important things are not discussed.

He types at his blog the next morning, a coffee mug beside his laptop. He tells John, in Sigerson’s embarrassing narrative style (LOL <3), about his awful walk through Berkeley. Then, because it _is_ a fashion blog he’s running, he writes about a thin pair of leathery shoes he had seen on many feet in the city.  


_Too flimsy by far, no good for clubbing,_ he types. This blogging thing is getting easier. Dr. Madder is sitting across the hotel table, sipping her own coffee. She hasn’t said a word. Clearly wants to say something. Wants to discuss the Asperger’s, the possibility that he has the illness – no. No, no. She’s probably already decided, he’s already hopelessly nailed down as an “Aspie” in her head. The thought is so painful that, eventually, he’s forced to stop typing and says, “You have questions.”  


_What’s it like to be socially clueless? Why can’t you control your little freak-outs? Can I call you “Aspie” now? ___  


He waits for it all.  


She looks up, seeming surprised at being addressed.  


“Yes, I do,” she says.  


“Go on,” Sherlock says impatiently.  


“Did Jim have a funeral?”  


He pauses, but only for a second. “Moriarty?” he says.  


“Mr. Moriarty, yes. Jimmy. James. Jim. Him. That guy. Did he get a funeral?” she asks.  


“I’m not sure. Is it relevant to the Sasaki Code?” he asks.  


“Oh, no. I was just curious,” she says. “How’s the blog going?”  


He ignores this; she can check his blog updates any time she wants. He says, “Shall I text Mycroft and ask?”  


“If you’d like.” She shrugs.  


A few minutes later, he receives an answer:  


**8:09 A.M.** : _Moran got to Moriarty’s body before we could; it was removed from the hospital. We have been unable to find it._  


Ugh. Mycroft’s minions. Incompetent as always.  


“He probably wouldn’t have wanted a funeral,” Dr. Madder decides when she sees the text. “Probably thought funerals were boring. An orgy in his name would have worked, though.”  


Sherlock is sorely tempted to further inquire about her relationship with Moriarty, but he refrains, if only because she’s refraining from mentioning the Asperger’s. She’ll mention it soon, of course. But at least he’s ready now. She’s just handed him his defense.  


_Time to discuss Asperger’s, Sherly,_ she’ll say, patronizing.  


_How about that Jimmy, Dr. Madder? Did you know him for long?_  


Yes. That will work.  


She keeps silent for the rest of the morning, at least. Once he sips the last of his coffee he shuts his laptop and rises. Reaches for his violin beside the bed, trying not to lean on his toes too much (they’re still blistered from his walk). He cranks out a couple of discordant tunes; strings of notes that clank into each other, making the ears wince. He likes, sometimes, for the notes not to go together quite right; he’s never had a proper respect for rhythm and the like. Violins were made to be mirrors, not paintings; the difference is that the former isn’t always aesthetic.  


Dr. Madder doesn’t complain about his clashing chords. He used to have to soothe John with a couple of John’s favorite pieces, on nights when he felt like playing very badly. Apparently Dr. Madder doesn’t need that type of compensation. Convenient.  


“Sigerson,” she says around noon, breaking into his reverie. He turns to her, setting his bow on his lap.  


“Yes?”  


“We need to go back to UC Berkeley today,” she says. “The library was where I spent most of my time, but while I was developing the computer code there I also – ”  


“You left hints of the Sasaki Code elsewhere,” he interrupts, having anticipated this. “This university _was_ your home for a number of years, after all. Where? Your dorm room?”  


She grins. “Yes, very good. It’s already fairly hidden, but I’d like to be safe…”  


He’s about to ask what, precisely, is already fairly hidden, but she interrupts, “With which are you more comfortable: Matches or axes? Or maybe just a scraper, if you’re feeling delicate.”  


He raises his eyebrows. “My decision will be made once I get the particulars of my mission.”  


“As you wish,” she says, and sets her own empty coffee mug on the table. “Regardless, we’ll have to stop at a hardware store first. I’m ready when you are.”  


* * * *  


What would the dorm room of a blossoming genius look like? Sherlock’s had been a confused smorgasbord: his table had been layered with microscopes and beakers; his shelves stacked with everything from Nietzsche to Goethe, Cicero to Catullus; his walls decorated with anatomy diagrams and taxonomy. Everything about his room had said “Major Undecided.” There’d been a time when Sherlock Holmes had been an intellectual curiosity, interests thorough but unfocused. Strange to recall.  


Anabelle Madder’s old dorm room is nothing like this. Someone else boards here now – it’s been years, of course, since Ms. Madder slept between the walls where Sherlock now stands. But the signs of her presence are there. He sees it in the way the wooden floorboards squeak in certain places across the room, a sure sign of an incessant pacer. He sees the faded square where a small cot once rested upon the floor, like the precedent for Dr. Madder’s current preference for futons. He can picture her room clearly: Neat and to the point. Nothing but mathematics.  


Dr. Madder is standing next to him, hands in her jean pockets. She’s frowning and muttering irritably to herself: “…Why did they decide to put a bed in the middle of the room? Takes up all of the space. That’s ridiculous, completely inefficient… And why are the students who live here so _messy?_ It was never so messy in my day… Not enough stuff to make a mess with…”  


“There’s wallpaper in this room,” Sherlock says. Dr. Madder brings her rant to a halt.  


“Yes,” she says, turning to him. “Horrible, isn’t it? Who picked out the purple wallpaper, do you think? It’s oppressive. How is anyone supposed to breathe in a room wrapped in purple flowers?”  


Sherlock, who quite misses the wallpaper of 221B, makes no comment to this, but continues to his point: “I caught glimpses of other dorm rooms while we walked up here. They all have uniform peach-colored walls. Painted.”  


“Yes. I wanted white while I boarded here, but peach was better than _this.”_ She gestures to the wallpaper.  


Wallpaper. Lots of fond memories regarding wallpaper. In the Before John days, Sherlock had once caught a serial killer with a proclivity for old women. The police hadn’t suspected it was murder; they’d dimly thought that old women dying was suddenly becoming a trend across London. No one but Sherlock had noticed that all of the old women died in rooms with _wallpaper._ It was only once Sherlock insisted to Lestrade that someone rip off the wallpaper in one of the victim’s houses that the signs of the murder were revealed. Wallpapering a house to cover up a murder: As funny as it is ineffective.  


“What’s beneath the wallpaper, Dr. Madder?” Sherlock asks, looking around the room. “Where is it hidden?”  


Dr. Madder frowns, but after a moment she points to the wall across from the bed. It’s windowless, but has a small bookshelf leaning against it.  


“That’s where it took me,” she says.  


“Where what took you?” Sherlock asks, approaching the wall. He pushes the bookshelf away, careful not to move anything; the students who board here now are in class, won’t return for several hours. Best to leave little evidence of Sherlock and Dr. Madder’s presence.  


“The obsession,” she says. “I didn’t eat for five days, didn’t drink water for eighteen hours. When the idea for the Sasaki Code first came to me, I forgot about everything else. I was consumed. So, naturally, it seemed frivolous to stop and look for paper. And with no one around to hand me a notebook…”  


“…The wall seemed a perfectly optimal tool for catching all your thoughts,” Sherlock finishes. He knows that lust for an idea, the drive that is the farthest a human being can get from primitive. It is an ecstasy, a type of intellectual mania that few individuals could even hope to experience. He feels a certain kind of respect for her. He only knows one other person, besides himself and her, who could become so obsessive. But that man had been insane.  


Together, Anabelle and Sherlock spend time tearing and scraping off the wallpaper of the dorm room. They scratch and rip their fingernails, but are too intent upon their mission to give much notice. Sherlock’s spent so many years aiming to discover clues, and now he’s working to cover them up. Must hide the marks of Dr. Madder’s initial obsession with the computer code. He thinks of Moran, or perhaps Gruner, coming into her old dorm room, looking for evidence. No reason why they’d let wallpaper stop them. Need to make sure there’s nothing for them to find.  


Once the old, peach-colored paint of the wall is revealed, Sherlock and Dr. Madder step back to absorb their work. The evidence has been revealed: Mathematical equations have been scrawled all over the wall. Sherlock envisions a young Ms. Madder, working from her height of 5’8”, reaching up over her own head in her enthusiasm, so that the numbers are, from Sherlock’s height, at eye level. She worked from the right, vertically, in the way traditional Japanese is written. The work starts out hesitantly. Plenty of things crossed out. The math is tentative, simple for someone adept in discreet probability. Then she delved further, using her own mathematician’s shorthand, becoming more explorative. His eyes move slowly across the wall, until the numbers become too complex for him to understand. He sees that her hand moved quicker the farther along she went, turning from a girlish print to a nearly-illegible scrawl. He can hear the years-old thoughts that once raced through her head: _This is possible, isn’t it? This code, it’s mathematically feasible – I could make this._ He feels her beating heart, her rush of adrenaline, her salivating mouth, all the symptoms of that intellectual lust he knows so well. He hears her shallow breathing, and imagines how she must have heard it too, how it must have made her aware of her own solitude. One steady stream of inhales and exhales, echoing throughout the mostly-empty room. He knows she must have made believe that she wasn’t alone at all, that someone was behind her, watching, witnessing the genius being made. He knows that feeling. Has a theory that a lonely genius was the first to imagine an omnipresent god.  


Yes. Anabelle Madder snatched the first inklings of something wonderful in this room. He can see the Inspiration like it’s tangible.  


He realizes that he’s been silent for a considerable length of time when Dr. Madder, very gently, takes hold of his hand. Slides her thumb across his wrist, interlaces her fingers with his. He draws in a breath and pulls away.  


“We need to destroy this,” she says.  


He doesn’t want to. This is beautiful. This is like the art Mummy is always so moved by. He never appreciated the paintings she collected, but he appreciates this. He even appreciates paintings, now, in a way. Understands the artist’s urge to replicate. He wants to replicate this, wants to preserve it forever. This is evidence that someone else in the world – someone close to his age, living in his era _– someone standing right beside him –_ has experienced his same type of intellectual joy. Looking at these crossed out numbers that he can only partly make sense of, he realizes how not-alone he is. The average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate, but he needs to be above average. Needs to remember _all_ of this, _precisely_ as it is.  


“Let’s do so,” is all he says. It doesn’t dawn on him to tell her what he’s feeling, and she doesn’t seem to suspect that he’s experiencing a revelation. He pulls his scraper out of his pocket and presses the blade against the wall. It’s over the top equations, the first ones written in that neat, feminine handwriting.  


Across the wall, at a random part of the number mural, Dr. Madder begins to scrape off the paint and writing.  


“Stop,” Sherlock commands. She looks up.  


“Problem?” she says.  


“Let me do this on my own.” He needs to scrape everything away precisely. Must do it top to bottom, right to left, just as it was written. Must absorb every intricate detail of this genius and never, ever forget it.  


“But it’d be faster if – ”  


“Please,” he says. _Please be like John and always do what I say if I say “please.”_  


For some reason, she smiles and, to his relief, steps back.  


“Alright,” she says, holding up her scraper as if in surrender. “As you like, Sigerson.”  


“Thank you,” he says, and begins his work.  


* * * *  


“What are you doing?” Dr. Madder asks. It’s hours later, and they’re back at the hotel room. Sherlock is standing by the window with his violin balanced on one shoulder, a pen between his lips, lined paper on the window sill. He misses the convenience of his folding music stand and music sheets, but the instrument currently touching his skin makes up for it.  


“Composing,” he says. His accent sounds even more ridiculous when he’s speaking with a pen between his lips. Dr. Madder doesn’t laugh, though. And, even better, she doesn’t ask what he’s composing. He’s not sure how to explain that he’s converting the numbers in his head – the ones she’d once written on her dorm wall – into music notes, and turning it into a song. It might be something she’d enjoy, now that he thinks of it; a type of cryptography, although perhaps crude by her standards. Yet it doesn’t dawn on him to ask her to join him in the effort, or to inquire as to whether or not she has any knowledge of music. He continues on alone, and she continues working on her laptop. In silence they proceed into the night.


	10. Last Day in California

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wrapping things up before they go to NYC.

It’s their last full day in California, and they have one task remaining. Thanks to Sherlock, U.C. Berkeley’s records now have Anabelle down as a history major instead of a mathematics one. The only issue is that a diploma, declaring her true major, rests in her home in Berkeley. They need to find it, and dispose of it. 

Anabelle rings her own doorbell while Sherlock looks around the front yard. He’s surprised that she would own an house like this; its shingles are falling apart, the white paint chipping. Bikes litter the yellow-grassed front lawn. And when the door opens, the reeking scent of feline urine gushes from the house. Sherlock crinkles his nose. 

“Yo, it’s Madder!” A boy, no older than twenty-three, comes out of the house. He wraps a skinny arm around Anabelle and, even though he _stinks,_ Anabelle hugs him back, laughing. From one quick glance Sherlock counts no less than a dozen piercings on the boy, including the eyebrow, and three tattoos. Also a small, disappointing Mohawk that makes Sherlock take a repulsed step back. 

This is not going to work. He cannot possibly go inside this filthy, punk-ridden house. 

No. No. He has to. Important for their mission. It’s like working with the homeless network. He can disinfect himself afterward. And he’s not Sherlock Holmes right now, anyway, he’s Sigerson Bøler. 

“Hello, Silver,” Anabelle says pleasantly. “Do you mind if my friend and I stay here for a short while today?” 

The boy named Silver (cognomen, obviously, likely based on the artificial color of his hair) takes a look at Sherlock. He sees Sigerson and says, “Duuuuude. Nice shoes.” He gives a thumbs-up, seeming deeply impressed by hideous, balance-impairing platform heels, apparently. Sherlock scowls and looks away before receiving a punch to the arm by Anabelle. 

“He’s just in a bad mood because we’re leaving Cali soon,” she explains quickly. Sherlock remembers his persona and tries to wear a smile. 

“I understand completely.” Silver nods gravely. “Come in, come in.” 

To Sherlock’s horror, they follow Silver into the house, down a hallway. The walls have been spray-painted with obscenities and political messages, and the smell of cat urine pervades ever more strongly. 

“How many cats do you _own?”_ Sherlock asks. He deduces at least six. 

Silver turns around, gives him a weird look. “What do you mean? We don’t own any cats.” 

Sherlock shivers, but doesn’t press the topic. They enter a living room, and Sherlock pauses in the doorway. Three other punk rockers are all sitting on the floor. (They have a couch, but it looks like someone’s gone through it with an axe, so that the poor thing is regurgitating stuffing and springs.) When they spot Anabelle, they all stand and start cheering, greeting her too loudly. 

“MADDERRRR!” one shouts. 

“No one’s madder than the Madders!” sings another, like it’s a phrase that’s been said many times before, and he gives Anabelle a high-five. 

“Except for you,” she laughs. “You guys have completely destroyed my house!” 

Three of the punks pause, and Silver looks away, whistling. Finally a green-haired man says, “You can keep our deposit.” 

She laughs. “Alright, then.” 

“You want some beer or something?” one asks, and Anabelle says, “That’s alright, my friend and I have work to do.” Then, she says lowly to Sherlock, “Eat _nothing_ from their fridge.” 

Taking his hand, she leads him out of the living room and through the kitchen. Sherlock quickly sees what she meant: he can’t imagine anything in their fridge being edible. John may have complained about Sherlock’s kitchen experiments, but they look quite sterile and contained when he spots the mold in the sink, and the stacks of plates all over the counters. He’s stepping on pizza boxes as well, and the floor is completely hidden. 

“The diploma’s in here somewhere,” Anabelle says. “This shouldn’t take too long. Sorry about my renters’ mess.” 

“221B wasn’t so much better,” Sherlock admits. “It just smelled cleaner. And its occupants were always hygienic, of course.” 

Anabelle opens up a broken drawer, which collapses to the floor, making her jump. The drawer is filled with papers, coins, paperclips, and an assortment of junk. Sherlock frowns. 

“Would you like assistance, Anabelle?” he offers. She freezes, and for a moment he doesn't understand why. Then she says, "'Anabelle'?" 

"Yes," he says. "I thought that since..." _Since you once called me Sherlock, I could reciprocate._

“Anabelle suits me. I hear it very little nowadays. And yes - assistance. That’s why I brought you,” she says, chirpily, and gestures to a second drawer. He begins to go through it. 

It takes them the afternoon, during which Sherlock must cope with the punks coming in and out of the kitchen for beers and cold pizza, but eventually the diploma is found. And, underneath that, another one. Anabelle picks it up. 

“It’s my brother’s,” she says softly. The diploma was issued by the NYU. Luke Madder was, in fact, a history major. 

“We should get rid of this, if we want your brother to look like the true cryptographer,” Sherlock says. “Shall we burn them both at the stove, or…?” 

“Yes,” Anabelle says faintly. Sherlock reaches for her diploma, which she relinquishes, but Luke’s won’t budge from her grasp. 

“Anabelle,” Sherlock says sternly. Hard to sound stern when you’re a Norwegian gay man. 

She doesn’t move, just keeps staring at her brother’s diploma. Sherlock counts to ten, giving her time, and then he snatches it from her. Turns to the stove, lights the gas. Sets the papers to fire. The flames lick at them greedily, charring the papers to black. Anabelle stares at him and he curses his own impatient fingers, his lack of restraint, even as the papers continue to burn. He waits for retribution, angry with himself. 

“I needed you to do that,” Anabelle says finally, and slumps against the counter, looking exhausted. “Can’t afford to hesitate. Have things to get done.” 

“Yes, precisely,” Sherlock says, glad someone understands. It doesn’t make her look any happier, though. She stares at the flaming papers. 

“You are sad,” Sherlock observes. 

“Yes, I am. Very much so.” 

Sherlock frowns. She’s not looking at him; too intent on the flames. He gives himself time to think. What is it people do in these situations? Friends comfort each other, yes? And they are friends, yes? Or something like it. He’s comforted John before, but that was different. John is different, he needed different things. Sherlock reaches out to Anabelle, his hand hovering inches from her back, hesitant. Is this the sort of comfort women seek? Touching? Is this the sort of comfort Anabelle seeks? He tries it. He presses her hand against her back, lightly. Ready to snatch it away at a moment’s notice. 

Oh no. 

Oh no – what has he done? 

The moment Sherlock touches her back, Anabelle dissolves into tears. The sound is earsplitting. For an absurd millisecond Sherlock thinks he vastly underestimated his own strength, and broke her spine, because she collapses against the counter with her hands over her eyes, nearly screaming. Her shoulders shake and her entire body heaves and, if this can be considered crying, then it is the most violent form of the act Sherlock has ever witnessed. Anabelle’s noises – wordless shouts, like something wounded and broken – echo throughout the house. He hears the punks in the living room become silent. 

Sherlock pulls his hand back, but Anabelle turns around, revealing a tear-drenched face, and grabs his arm. Clings to it, too tightly, hurting him. He stumbles forward when she yanks the poor limb, simultaneously leaning into her while trying to move away. It’s all very awkward and uncouth. 

“I f-feel like s-s-something is c-clawing at my in-insides,” she cries out, shaking her head. “T-this is r-r-ridiculous, but I never realized t-that someone c-could miss someone e-else so – so – so much. I’m _breaking.”_

“You look whole to me,” Sherlock offers unhelpfully, having no idea what else to say. She laughs, which he thinks might be a good sign. 

“Looks aren’t everything,” she says, and she wipes her eyes, releasing his arm. He rubs it, as it’s sore. 

“Wow,” she says, trembling, but regaining control. Tears are still falling, but she’s just sniffing now. Not shouting. It’s an improvement. “I guess I needed to do that… Release of ACTH stress hormones and all. Okay. Well. That’s over with.” She laughs. It’s a weak, nervous sound. 

“It’s alright,” he says. “Actually, no. It’s fine. It’s all fine.” 

The words are lost on her, of course, but she goes, “I know it is. No shame in emotion.” 

She’s not embarrassed at all. He’s bewildered by that. She should be, surely. She just experienced something raw and powerful in front of a man she’s only known for a few weeks. Too soon to reveal your own humanity. 

The punks come into the kitchen.

“Madder?” Silver says hesitantly. 

“The gay guy messing with you?” another asks, giving Sherlock a look that makes him bristle indignantly. 

“I am _not_ gay!” he says in his best Norwegian accent. A moment goes by, during which the punk looks from Sherlock’s dead serious face, to his platform shoes, and gapes at the discrepancy. Anabelle cracks up. 

“I’m fine guys, completely,” she says. “And sorry if we got ashes in your stove.” 

“Don’t worry about it. The number one rule in this house is that we don’t give a shit about cleaning!” Silver says. Anabelle raises her eyebrows. 

“Don’t ever say that to your landlady. Life lesson, Silver.” She takes Sherlock’s hand and steers him out of the kitchen. “Shall we return to hotel? Our work here is done.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and suddenly has to stifle a yawn. “I feel exhausted, actually.” 

“Really?” Anabelle tilts her head. “Aren’t you used to running all over London?” 

He shoots her a dirty look. “I haven’t had to do that in a while.” 

“Alright, then,” she says. “Goodbye, Silver, Paul, Scott, Chris. Sigerson here needs a nap.” 

And with that, they take off, back to San Francisco for the last time. 


	11. New York City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in NYC.

The next evening, after getting a subway ride from the airport, Sherlock and Anabelle stand outside the door of Anabelle’s childhood apartment. “Apartment” is the humble word for it – the multistoried home is located in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and would be impressive to Sherlock if his own childhood home had not been much grander. 

Anabelle looks at Sherlock and says, “You ready?” 

“Of course,” he says. She rings the doorbell. Sherlock hears footsteps approaching; he can tell by the sound of the steps that they’re leather dress shoes, fine in quality. Something Italian. The interior flooring of the apartment: Wood, probably bamboo. The door opens. 

Sherlock doesn’t get a good look at Anabelle’s adoptive father before the man rushes forward, bringing the young doctor into his arms. 

“Anabelle,” he says. “Thank God you’re home.” 

“Professor,” Anabelle laughs, “I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine.” 

But the man doesn’t release her, keeps holding her too tightly, rubbing a paternal hand on her back. Sherlock looks at his face. 

Mid-sixties. Balding redhead, will go gray within next five years. Formerly a smoker. Imperfect posture from hours stooped over a writing desk. Right-handed, steady grip; skilled drawer. Wearing an Armani suit, two-buttoned, beige in color, sharp. Indicative of wealth, of course – but also of conceit? No, Sherlock thinks not. Nothing conceited in this man’s bleeding sentimentality toward Anabelle. 

“Ah, Sigerson Bøler, it’s a pleasure,” says the Professor, finally releasing his daughter. He puts out his right hand, gives Sherlock’s a firm, quick shake. The man’s eyes are bright, twinkling. He's likely laughing at Sherlock’s (Sigerson’s) outfit of the day – a pink dress, with mismatching trousers beneath it. (Sherlock had insisted on the trousers.) 

“Likewise,” says Sherlock, stiffly. 

“Come in, both of you.” 

Anabelle and Sherlock follow him inside. As soon as they’re in, the Professor apparently believes he can speak freely, because he says, “Impressive accent, Mr. Holmes. And I see you’ve endured my daughter’s…thoroughness.” 

Sherlock tracks the man’s gaze. Yes. He’s looking at the dress. Grimacing, Sherlock returns the gaze. 

“All in the name of self-preservation,” Sherlock says, still not letting his accent slide. Constant paranoia: Moriarty’s minions, everywhere, seeping through the cracks of doors and peering through the walls. 

“It’s alright,” Anabelle says. “My father’s apartment is safe.” 

“How can you be certain?” Sherlock asks. Anabelle and the Professor share a glance, but neither answer him. 

“Refreshments are being prepared as we speak,” the Professor says. Obvious change of subject. Bad liar. (Like John.) 

“Oh!” Anabelle smiles. “Is Sylvia here?” 

“She is – ” The Professor can’t finish his sentence, as Anabelle has already gone dashing off to what is presumably the kitchen. Sherlock takes a moment to look around. The apartment is spacious, with clean, fluffy white carpeting and windows that, during the day, would let all the sunlight in. Sherlock sees a spiral staircase leading to the second floor. 

The Professor shrugs and says, by way of explanation, “Anabelle was always particularly close to the cook. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I’m Professor Madder. You can call me the Professor.” 

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. 

“And if that doesn’t suit you,” says the Professor quickly, “then the Prof. Although that makes you sound sort of lazy, doesn’t it? Dr. Madder would be correct as well, I suppose, but that would just get confusing. I’m too old for Matt, but Matthew might – ” 

“The Professor will serve,” Sherlock interrupts. The Professor grins. 

“Still using the accent, Mr. Holmes? I assure you, it’s unnecessary.” 

“How do you know?” Annoyingly, the Professor chuckles every time Sherlock uses it. 

“Because there is not even the slightest possibility that anyone has installed cameras, or recording devices, in this house. We are also not being watched.” 

“How do you _know?”_ he repeats. 

“Jimmy Moriarty once gave me a promise that this house would stay safe. He rarely makes promises, but when he does, he keeps them.” 

“His minions might not,” Sherlock points out. 

“His allies never disobey his orders,” says the Professor. “Jimmy has always been good at getting people to follow him.” He sighs. 

“Yes, but would they follow him even after death?” A moment passes, during which Sherlock takes account of the Professor’s expression – widened eyes, parted mouth – and says, _“Oh._ You didn’t know, did you?” 

“Jimmy is…dead?” the Professor says. “Are you sure?” 

“He shot himself in the mouth in front of me,” Sherlock says flatly. “It was fairly convincing evidence, I’d say.” 

“Suicide.” The Professor’s lips form a hard frown. “That’s not surprising.” His words echo Anabelle’s. “Still, it’s a shame… Such a wasted life…” 

“And what role did you play in that life, Professor?” Sherlock questions. He regards the man before him suspiciously. If he’s someone Moriarty promised to keep safe, then he’s obviously dangerous. Some type of ally, likely aided Moriarty in one of his crimes before. Perhaps this is the man who helped Moriarty establish stable connections to the crime syndicate in America? 

“I was his camp counselor,” says the Professor, “when he was 12.” 

Sherlock blinks. 

“It was a camp for extraordinarily bright children,” the Professor explains, then smiles proudly. “I started it with another NYU professor. It was a place where brains were the only thing that mattered. Full scholarship to any child with remarkable intellectual abilities. I remember Jimmy. Fresh from Dublin, no money, no friends, and wishing he had no father.” He frowns. “He lived with me for eight weeks, and somehow I managed to…make an impression on him.” 

“How so?” Sherlock asks, but in that moment Anabelle and a stout Hispanic woman, presumably the cook, enter the living room. They both bear plates of small sandwiches. 

“I’m famished,” Anabelle says. “Care to eat, Sherlock?” 

“Did you know your father was once Moriarty’s camp counselor?” Sherlock blurts. 

Anabelle looks at him. “Yes, of course I knew. I went to the camp too.” 

She sets down her plate on the glass coffee table and reaches for a sandwich, but Sherlock pushes it out of her hand. “And you simply _neglected_ to tell me that you were once childhood friends with the man who tried to make me kill myself?” 

“Oh dear,” the Professor frowns, “he did _what?”_

Anabelle gives her father a dark look. “He was completely crazy by the end, Professor.” But the Professor isn’t listening. “I should have done something,” he’s whispering. “I should have gotten him help a long time ago, a decade ago – ” 

“It was too late for him the day he was born. There’s nothing you could have done. And hey, chin up, old sport,” she says, smiling softly. “You raised two entirely excellent kids, remember.” 

The Professor manages a sad, small smile. “Any news from Luke?” 

“None,” she says. She turns to Sherlock. “He was never my friend in camp. Mr. Moriarty has never had _friends._ And he actually creeped me out quite a lot, thank you very much. Maybe I didn’t want to talk about it.” 

Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, but for once no words come out. 

“Come on,” Anabelle says bitterly. “Grab a sandwich and come upstairs. We have work to do.” 

* * * * 

An hour later, Sherlock is told to retire in Luke Madder’s old bedroom. Although he slept the entire plane ride, he still feels exhausted. Anabelle and him plan to spend two to three weeks in New York City: Just long enough to conceal any signs of her early interest in math, and alter Luke Madder’s NYU records, making _him_ the math major. As Sherlock walks down the hall to Luke’s bedroom, he wonders what it will look like. Anabelle Madder’s childhood bedroom had been much like her living room in Sakae-mura: Books, and nothing more. Luke’s will be similar, probably. He did, after all, travel and keep Anabelle Madder safe for ten years. He’s obviously brilliant. 

Sherlock disappoints himself by entering one of the most ordinary bedrooms he’s ever seen. There’s a bunk bed, where the boy must have once hosted sleepovers (Do kids actually do that? Sherlock isn’t sure.), and on the dresser is a whole cluster of basketball trophies. C.D.s take up the bulk of the room, stacked in holders that line the wall. Everything is so trite, so unfathomably _dull._ Sherlock doesn’t have to look to know that there’s a stash of Playboy under the bed. Luke Madder’s bedroom is filled with boyish rubbish, and its only redeeming quality is a single bookshelf lined with tomes on history: _The Search For Modern China_ by Jonathan D. Spence, _The History of Western Philosophy_ by Bertrand Russell, etc. 

Sherlock finds himself wondering what John’s bedroom would have looked like at 18 years of age. Would it have been like this? (Well, minus the basketball trophies; his height would make him awful at that.) Pedestrian, with just the tiniest glimpse of something bordering on interesting? Sherlock imagines so. 

In fact – yes. He’s positive. He’s practically standing in John’s bedroom, right now. Inexplicably, he feels a surge of warmth toward Luke Madder, wherever he is, regardless of whether he’s currently alive or dead. He pulls on some of Sigerson’s pajamas and curls beneath Luke’s blue comforter. He’s eager for sleep. 

Tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes will have to clean those history books out of Luke’s bedroom, and replace them with some of Anabelle’s math tomes. And he’ll have to clear the books out of Anabelle’s bedroom, too, and decorate her room with whatever it is that a normal 18 year-old girl would decorate her room with. Furniture, for starters. Something pretty. 

Sherlock Holmes can, of course, think of multiple things at once, so even while he’s mentally decorating Anabelle’s bedroom, he’s still ruminating on Luke. What was he like? How could it be that someone clever enough to create false identities, to build the labyrinth that is Sasaki Facilities, is so entirely normal? Luke Madder agreed to pose as a cryptographer, and now he’s paying the price of having taken that risk. What makes an ordinary person like him do something like that? He dropped out of graduate school to travel the world with his sister – _why?_

Sherlock doesn’t understand. And trying to solve all of the Madders’ mysteries makes him feel heavy, groggy. Like he’s made of lead and very, very ready for sleep. He rests his head against Luke’s soft pillows, smelling detergent and freshly-laundered cotton, and drifts off. 


	12. Jimmy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim Moriarty's childhood is discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special thanks to Kalima for all of her wonderful comments!

“Really clever, entirely thorough,” Sherlock says, rubbing his hands together approvingly. He and Anabelle stand in the doorway of Luke Madder’s room, which is now unnervingly similar to Sherlock’s at 18, with all the signs of sure-to-blossom genius apparent. They even thought to write math problems on Luke’s wall, in a replication of his hand. Anabelle’s room, in addition, now looks suitably average. “What's next on our list?” 

“Um, actually – ” Anabelle begins. Just then, the Professor passes the pair of them on the way to his office. 

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, have you finished yet? I finally have a free moment, if you’d like to take a step into my office,” he says, giving Sherlock a friendly clap on the back. Sherlock turns to ask him why, precisely, Sherlock would have any reason to ‘take a step’ into his office, but he’s already disappeared down the hallway. Sherlock instead verbalizes his thoughts to Anabelle. 

“Why would he want you? I wouldn’t know.” She releases a nervous laugh, immediately stirring Sherlock’s suspicions. “But the Professor rarely does things without reason, so perhaps you should follow him.” 

“We should continue working, don’t you think? What is our next task?” Sherlock asks again. 

“Actually,” she says, “there isn’t any other work to be done.” 

“None? But you said we’d be staying here for at least a week, perhaps two.” Sherlock frowns, then freezes. Oh. _Oh._ “You told your father, didn’t you? That I have…” _Aspergers,_ he thinks. “The Professor is a psychologist. He thinks we came here so that we can all discuss my mental health, doesn't he? Wait, no. No. He only invited me into his office, meaning... We came to New York so that he can give me therapy sessions.” He spits out the words. 

“My father isn’t a therapist, Sherlock," Anabelle says slowly. "He’s a psychology professor with a… special expertise in dealing with sociopaths. If anyone can recognize Antisocial Personality Disorder, he can. If you’re not willing to explore the possibility that you fall somewhere on the autism spectrum, you could at least realize that there’s no way you’re a sociopath. It was just an offer.” 

“Well, I decline,” Sherlock says shortly. 

“But Sherlock – ” 

“Ah,” he hisses softly, "and therein lies the problem. When did you start calling me by my first name? The day you decided I must have Aspergers.” He forces out the word. “It was then, was it, that the formalities were stripped away? And why, _Dr. Madder,_ should that be? Maybe because an autistic man is no different from a child to you? You thought you could lead me to New York without telling me why, but I have no intention of being compliant.” 

“Sherlock, stop it,” she says, frustration beginning to leak through her voice. “I don’t think of you as a child at all. Rather, you’re the most painfully stubborn man I’ve ever known. I knew that if I told you about why we were coming here, you’d never get on the plane.” 

“Because I’m not interested in speaking to a _professional.”_

“And why not? Why are you so reluctant to help yourself? Don’t you see that you need some type of – ” 

“Therapy? Because I’m what, Dr. Madder? Eccentric? Heartless? Focused? Emotionless?” 

“Because you’re lonely,” she says. “I read Sigerson Bøler’s blog, Sherlock. You update three times a day. As soon as John is out of jail, should you somehow get him to read your website, he will have _a lot_ to catch up on. And I just thought that this might help you with your issues socializing.” 

“You thought it gave you an excuse not to inform me of our exact itinerary,” Sherlock says, “which is exactly why I have avoided a diagnosis. If my clients thought I fall on the autism spectrum, they would cease to take me seriously. I have always theorized this. Thank you for providing me with the evidence.” Sherlock sighs. Quite suddenly, the fight is drained out of him. He feels heavy, exhausted, like he’s just tried to run through water. He says, “Get out, Dr. Madder.” 

“Are… Are you packing?” 

“Packing?” 

“To go?” she says. “Are you leaving now?” 

“No,” he blinks, “I’m going to take a nap.” 

“A nap? _Now?”_

“Yes. Now please, get out,” he says. Anabelle looks like she wants to object, but after being accused of treating him like a child, she surrenders. She leaves, letting him slam the door after her. Satisfyingly, he can hear her jump outside, startled by the noise. Then he turns to Luke Madder’s bed and collapses. 

* * * * 

“Mr. Holmes?” The Professor pokes his head into the bedroom, his rumbling voice rousing Sherlock. Sherlock groans to consciousness, catching a mouthful of the pillowcase beneath him. “Are you sleeping?” 

“Clearly,” Sherlock mumbles, taking the pillowcase out of his mouth. 

“It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you could nap later, if you’re at all in the mood to start talking. I don’t know when I’ll next get free time this week. Are you ready for a session?” 

“No sessions,” Sherlock says sleepily. 

“No sessions? But I thought you flew across the country to speak to me?” 

Ah. So the Professor thinks he knows. Well, that makes things better, doesn’t it? It extinguishes the mental image Sherlock had had of the two laughing at him behind his back. At least he has the respect of one Madder. 

“Your daughter neglected to tell me the purpose of our being here, actually,” Sherlock says, now truly awake. He turns on his side so that he can look at the Professor standing in the doorway. The Professor does not seem at all taken aback by addressing an adult who refuses to get out of bed. 

“She didn’t? But she told me that you two talked about everything, and –” he pauses, then finishes tiredly, “ – and now I look like a fool for believing her. I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. She’s made me look unprofessional, hasn’t she?” And all at once, Sherlock’s humiliation vanishes. If the Professor feels like a fool, then Sherlock doesn’t have to. “Well, then, if you never knew, I can’t imagine you’re interested now, are you?” 

“Not at all,” Sherlock says. 

“I’ll leave you to sleep, then.” 

“Yes, that would be – ” Sherlock suddenly rolls on his back and jolts up. “Wait.” Something has just sparked in his sleep-muddled brain. 

“Yes?” The Professor’s hand lingers on the doorknob. 

“You were Moriarty’s camp counselor, yes?” 

“I was,” he confirms. “Why do you ask?" 

“Could you… Could you tell me about that? About him? It’s important,” Sherlock says. 

“Well, under normal circumstances, I would have to refuse… He was a patient of mine, you see. My first and only. It ended in failure, obviously. And normally I would keep that information confidential, but I suppose if the patient is dead, it can do no harm.” The Professor walks into the room, closing the door behind him. He pulls up a chair from Luke’s desk to the bed. Sherlock lies back down. 

“He told me,” Sherlock begins, “that I was him.” 

He expects an immediate denial from the Professor. Instead he says, “And do you see any truth in that?” 

“I can’t be certain,” says Sherlock. “I thought I was willing to do anything to find the intellectual stimulation I need, but I would never _kill myself._ I would never…” _Hurt John._

“Then it sounds like you’re not him, to me,” says the Professor. 

“What was he like?” Sherlock asks, staring at the wall to his side, tracing imaginary patterns in it with his eyes. “Tell me everything.”

“Jimmy was…odd,” the Professor begins. “But, then, it was a camp for children with superior intellect. They were all odd. He was by no means the oddest. And unlike many of the children there, Jimmy Moriarty did not want for emotional nourishment. His mother was a hardworking, softhearted woman. He was, however, lacking in all else. He was cadaverous in complexion, stooped, thin-limbed and small. His social skills were naught, nor did he, at the time, seem interested in improving them. He preoccupied himself with solitary activities. I have noticed that intellectually-talented youth often spend their time alone, so this was not a concern to me. The concern stemmed instead from his utter unresponsiveness in the face of those who tried to induce conversation in him. Whenever someone spoke to him, he would simply fix a stare on them, and remain wordless. He had disproportionally large eyes, and rather than making him look cute as it would on another child, they gave him a sinister air. Black and fathomless, leaving the impression that some demon was inside him, clawing to get out. A monster blinked through the skin of that boy. But I sound melodramatic, I’m sure.” 

“No,” says Sherlock earnestly. “I've seen them myself.” 

“Then you understand.” 

“Yes,” he says impatiently. “Continue.” 

“Well, he was rejected from the camp almost as soon as he entered it.” 

“He was aggressive?” 

“Oh, exceedingly so, but we would not find that out until later. No, it was a matter of bureaucracy, mainly. He scored far too high on the ‘psychoticism’ section of the Eysenck Personality Test. The other professors worried he could be too dangerous to have around the other children. They were going to send him to a correction facility. In those days, you see, it was believed that children with Conduct Disorder, or children who showed signs of developing Conduct Disorder, could be helped through special programs made for callous children. In fact these programs have proven to be detrimental, as I predicted.” 

“So you prevented him from going to one. But how did you get him into your camp? Or was it him?” Sherlock thinks suddenly. “Did he intimidate the professors somehow?” 

“Oh, no.” The Professor chuckles. “The thought of little Jimmy intimidating anyone in those days is laughable. It was me. I take full responsibility for my part in making that monster. I was, in those days, something of a hippie. ‘All you need is love’ is the line, isn’t it? Well, I had that mentality, not realizing, of course, that Jimmy had already been shown plenty of love from his mother. Although he was never permitted into the camp as an official student there, and therefore never given a dorm room for the summer, he was allowed to take classes as a sort of unofficial student. He lived in this house, in the room next to this one, for seven weeks.” 

“Not eight, meaning he was sent home early,” Sherlock states. “Why?” 

“It was Luke. Just as he is now, Luke was...a friendly child. He had lived his whole life with his adoptive sister’s eccentricities, and so he didn’t find Jimmy so strange. He used to speak to Jimmy all of the time. The four of us ate breakfast together each morning, and he would talk ceaselessly to the boy, although Jimmy never responded. Jimmy would stare and stare, with those eyes…” The Professor shivers at the recollection. “It was chilling, but Luke never allowed it to faze him. It was easy to imagine that Jimmy was actually a deaf, he seemed to comprehend so little of what was said. He was always listening, though. And evidently, Luke’s attempts at friendship caught Jimmy’s interest in the worst of ways. 

“Luke would pick Anabelle and Jimmy up from their camp every day. One day, Anabelle stayed late. Jimmy and Luke waited for her out front. According to Luke's testimonials - which I have no reason not to believe - Jimmy eventually made the suggestion that she had gone swimming. He was well aware that the pool was closed at that time, with no lifeguards or adults present, but Luke didn't know better. Jimmy led Luke into the pool area, caught him off guard, and shoved him into the deep end. My son, you see, couldn’t swim. 

“Fortunately, a professor found the two boys in time. She said that when she arrived, having heard splashes and screaming from across the camp, Jimmy had pulled up a chair to watch. And he was just staring, a spectator as my son struggled… It was, likely, the first time that summer he ever smiled. 

“Jimmy never showed remorse. When asked why he tried to drown my son, he answered that he had ‘been curious to see what would happen.’ He knew, I think, that I would hush up the incident and any subsequent legal action – ” 

“Hush it up?” Sherlock interrupts. “Why? You were a concerned father, I don’t understand.” 

“‘All you need is love.’ Or so I thought.” A bitter laugh sounds from his lips. “I didn’t want Jimmy arrested, the label ‘criminal’ placed on him so young. I thought that by letting him off the hook, I was giving him a second chance. Needless to say, though, I didn’t let him near my children again. He was sent back to Dublin, where the scholarships he had received to attend a prestigious boarding school were taken back. He attended public school instead, and for two years I believed that his weeks in America had had no effect on him.” 

“But they did,” Sherlock says. “You heard from him again, clearly.” 

“Yes, of course. Two years later, when Jimmy was fourteen – and now going by the name James – I received a call from his mother. Mrs. Moriarty apologized for bothering me, but her son was in critical condition at the hospital, and she had no way to pay for the medical bills. I paid them, of course, but not before getting the truth out of her. She confessed that Jimmy had tried to kill himself. He planned a way that was…bizarre, unusual, and gruesome. Only a genius boy would have been able to come up with the mechanics of it, would have been able to manage all of the logistics involved in what had been, I think, sincerely intended to be his suicide. It was pure luck that it failed. 

“I flew to Dublin at once to speak to him. He wouldn’t see me while he was in the hospital, so I went to his home instead. And can you guess what I found when I went there?” 

Yes, Sherlock knows exactly what he must have found. It seems obvious, considering. The Professor answers his own question before Sherlock can. “I found a tiny version of me. There was Jimmy, fourteen years old in a bespoke suit. His posture was perfected, and his frailty had been replaced by some muscle. He even wore the same brand of cologne I had worn during his summer in my home. It’s funny, now, to think about _the_ Moriarty, criminal of the century, being impressed by a mere professor. But he was. Of course, I never managed to influence him the way I wanted to. I wanted him to understand the dynamics of a functioning family, the benefits of charity work. Instead, I think, he was impressed by my ability to get people to listen to me. He must have wanted that, and thought wearing suits would give him it. I don’t think he ever considered that people listen to me because they _like_ me. 

“For someone who had just attempted suicide, he seemed overjoyed to see me. He was proud, I think, of the changes he had made. I got his mother to leave the living room, and sat him down. I was so young and clueless – I had no idea what to say that would convince this boy to climb his way out of depression. But I had brought myself all the way to a grimy flat in Dublin, not to mention the thousands of dollars I’d spent, so clearly I had something to say. I began by complimenting his way of dress. He giggled at me. It was the strangest laugh, Mr. Holmes, like someone possessed. He rolled his head to and fro, just once, and brought his fingers to his lips. His lips curled and his eyes sparked and he leaned forward, and told me, in a whisper, that his way of dress wasn’t the only thing that had changed. I said, ‘What else has?’ He told me that he’d finally learned how to do it. ‘Do what?’ I asked, although I should have seen it coming. It was a textbook case, after all. ‘Hurt people,’ he answered. 

“With surprisingly little prodding, I got him to tell me all the things he had done in his two years of public school. The way he’d so cleverly – that’s his adverb, Mr. Holmes, not mine – hurt his peers, and even some of his teachers. And, finally, he told me about how he… He murdered someone, Mr. Holmes.” The Professor closes his eyes. “The swim captain at his school. Carl Powers, I think that was his name. He was someone’s son.” A moment passes, during which the Professor doesn't move, and Sherlock has the tact to not point out that of course he was someone’s son, all boys are. Instead he waits, and soon the Professor continues. 

“I sat there and listened. I should have known then that there was no hope for his recovery, none at all. I should have had him arrested, done all in my power to have him tried as an adult in court. He confessed _murder_ to me, Mr. Holmes, and then do you know what he did? He looked at me, earnestly, and he seemed so young in that moment, even younger in his fine clothes. He said, ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you, Professor?’ ‘Everything you tell me is confidential.’ That’s what I said. I should have been tried with him, Mr. Holmes. 

“I left that night. I don’t know why he thought I wouldn’t tell anyone, but he never seemed to fear that I would. And I never did, not until now. I returned to New York City and kept my children under the impression that I had left to teach a class in Europe. I never told them what happened. I should have, I should have warned them, but I didn’t.” 

“You said you made a monster,” Sherlock points out. 

“And so I did,” the Professor answers. 

“That’s not making a monster, Professor. That’s abetting one,” says Sherlock. He’s not trying to comfort the distressed man, he’s searching for something that seems to be missing. “You’re a professor, you’d be precise with your diction. How did you _make_ Moriarty, Professor?" 

The Professor sighs and goes back to closing his eyes. “It was that same night. After hearing about Carl Powers, I told Jimmy that true gentlemen never hurt others. Christ, I was such a FOOL!” The old man slams his arm out, hitting nothing, punching air. He takes a deep breath, huffs it out. Sherlock puts his fingertips together, remaining calm. A moment passes and Sherlock can sense the Professor’s heartbeat returning to normal. “My apologies, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Just continue,” say Sherlock. The Professor does. 

“I…I made a joke. I told him that hurting others was beneath him, because we gentlemen don’t like to get blood on our suits. Looking back, it’s obvious I was in shock. Or I hadn’t actually believed him, maybe. He seemed so pathetic to me, so utterly alone. It was impossible to imagine him doing anything dangerous. And yet isn't that always the most dangerous type? I didn’t think he even heard my joke, he didn’t laugh. Just stared. As always. Now I know better.” 

“He heard you,” Sherlock says. “So… It was you who inspired him to become a consulting criminal.” 

“Yes. A gentleman never hurts others – he gets followers to hurt others for him, according to Jimmy’s logic. He twisted every lesson I ever taught him. I never would have believed this before Jimmy, but some people are neurologically-wired only for evil. It’s up to people like me to spot the warning signs. Instead I made a joke.” The Professor’s voice is hard, bitter. Self-hating. But then suddenly it turns even harder, and he looks straight at Sherlock. “Which is why, Mr. Holmes, you will understand if I don’t want you around my daughter.” 

“What?” Sherlock sits up, taken aback. 

“I have done my research on you,” the Professor says, crossing his arms. “I realize you possess an incredible skill. But I’m not interested in anyone who suspects he may have Antisocial Personality Disorder. If you truly believe you are a sociopath, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave my house.” 

“I… I may use that label for convenience’s sake,” Sherlock says. “It’s not entirely accurate.” 

“Convenience?” The Professor sneers. It’s discomforting to see someone so paternal suddenly look so hard, and to see that hardness directed at _him,_ Sherlock. “And what could possibly be convenient about portraying yourself as devoid of human feelings?” 

“It is…useful,” Sherlock says carefully. 

“Useful how, Mr. Holmes? If you don’t want to answer, then you can leave without giving me an explanation.” 

“I’m not leaving,” he says hurriedly. “It’s just a label, I – ” 

“But it’s not just a label. Anabelle told me you were diagnosed. Are you lying to me, now?” 

“I was diagnosed, yes, but only because I wanted to be. I displayed the symptoms of a sociopath to my therapist because I needed the label,” he explains. 

“What you’re telling me is that you manipulated someone very well, as a sociopath would, and that, like most sociopaths, you do not mind the term ‘sociopath.’” 

“I’m not a sociopath!” Sherlock says angrily. “I use the label because it protects me. I need an excuse for my inabilities to socialize normally, and for my fascination with topics considered dark by the general public. Being a sociopath blinds others to my inabilities.” 

“Ah, so this is a heartbreaking story of a young man who wishes to hide his vulnerabilities. Why should I believe you, Mr. Holmes? That’s exactly what a sociopath would say, if I threatened to take my daughter away from him. Is she some sort of prize to you? The fruits of your labor?” 

“Actually, I’m not entirely sure I like her all that much,” says Sherlock truthfully. The Professor laughs. 

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” he says. 

“I’m only working with her because her knowledge of Moriarty’s criminal web will prove useful to me once the decision in Gruner and Moran’s trial is reached. We’re just work partners,” he explains. 

“Is she aware that you’re just work partners?” 

“Yes, of course. Our relationship is strictly professional.” 

“Nothing with Anabelle is ever strictly professional. She loathes the very word. If all you intend to take from her is her knowledge of Moriarty, then make that clear now, because if not she will give much more,” says the Professor. “And should she do so to no purpose, or worse – only to feel anguish in the face of your callousness – I will _not_ make jokes with you, Mr. Holmes, as I once did with Moriarty. The Madders are no longer a family that can be preyed upon.” 

It dawns on Sherlock, suddenly, why the Professor is doing this. Why he’s turned so hard. Sure, it has everything to do with his past with Moriarty. But this is also one of “those conversations” that people always talk about, isn’t it? The ones in crap telly? The hurt-my-daughter-and-I’ll-hurt-you conversation? 

Sherlock’s wanted to have one of these conversations his entire life. Not this one specifically, but one of _those_ conversations, one of the normal kind. He’d nearly forgotten about them. But he feels, somewhere deep inside, a little thrilled. 

He should mention this on the blog. John would find it funny. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he says, feeling a bit like John. _We’re not a couple._ “And she’s thirty years old. I’m certain she can handle the likes of me.” 

“Age isn’t a factor when it comes to sociopaths.” 

“I’m _not_ a sociopath!” Years of claiming he is, quite freely, and now he’s denied it twice it one conversation. 

“What proof do you have, Mr. Holmes? Because I would love to believe you. I would.” 

“Proof? What do you want? My life story?” Sherlock offers mockingly, through gritted teeth. 

“Why, yes. That seems appropriate, considering the circumstances.” Sherlock stares at the Professor. The Professor folds his hands in his lap and puts on the air of someone anticipating a good tale. “Please, Mr. Holmes,” he says, prompting Sherlock with a gesture of his hand. “Proceed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, everything I mention in this story about Moriarty's life has become entirely headcanon for me. 
> 
> edit: I've recently learned that apparently hospital bills aren't something one would have to worry about in Ireland. But, because I'm American, I'm just going to forget that little fact. :)


	13. Facing the Soft Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[It's] far better to leave things in everyone's imaginations. It's nice to give little hints here and there but never a full answer. Why are the Holmes brothers the way they are? What are their parents like?" -Gatiss

“I can’t,” Sherlock says. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” 

“Start at the beginning,” the Professor says. A moment passes. Sherlock’s eyes dart from the Professor, back to his own pressed-together fingertips. Again. Again. Then – “I was born on January 6th, at 11:16 P.M.” – the facts come streaming from his lips. Objective information, distanced from himself, comforting. _Who, what, when, where._ No _whys_ or _hows._ Pouring out from him, revealing nothing. Aiding, in fact, in obscuring him, building a wall around him brick by brick. _Violet and Joseph Holmes_ – one brick. _The Holmes’ estate_ – two bricks. _1978_ – three bricks. _Sussex_ – four bricks. 

“Mr. Holmes, this is hardly productive,” the Professor interrupts. 

“You asked for my life story,” Sherlock points out.

“I asked for proof that you’re not a sociopath,” the Professor says. “Why don’t we start with something more…subjective? What is your first memory?” 

His first memory. That’s not something he can share with this man, this acquaintance. And it certainly won’t prove he’s not a sociopath. If anything, it indicates that he is. Which, for the first time in decades, isn’t something he wants. 

Memories distort over time; they bend at the lightest touch, the faintest whimsy, become dull and misshapen like old clothes. While all of his other, calmer memories have faded in just this way, or become so jumbled as to be untrustworthy, this memory is interwoven with anger and pain, making it radiate above the rest. The experience as a whole is disconnected; it blurs together, with only snapshots focusing clearly. He recalls, for instance, throwing open the backdoor and running through the acres-large garden of his home. The violent thumps of his child-feet against the grass, the swing of his chubby arms, the irrationality of his fury. He remembers when he first caught sight of the red rosebushes, the first whiff of the sweet, redolent scent they emitted, the moment when he thought _This will do._ Wait, no, he thought nothing so logical. It was purely visceral, an instinct for revenge that drew him to the roses, and made him plunge into them. Can’t say now why destroying the rosebushes seemed like the proper way to get back at Mycroft – can’t even say what he was getting back at Mycroft _for._ Or perhaps it had nothing to do with crushing the flowers, ripping off the petals and leaving them to wilt. Perhaps, even then, he knew that self-destruction was the best way to hurt his brother. 

Snapshot: His tiny, pudgy child-fists pounding into the bushes, his scream sounding out as thorns slashed painfully into his tender skin. The scream ripped through the curtains of the open windows, brought Mycroft running. He was skinny in those days, bounding across the yard in half the time it had taken Sherlock’s short limbs. When he came to snatch Sherlock up, the bushes were ruined, concaved in on themselves from Sherlock’s weight. And Sherlock was covered in cuts. He now recalls, most distinctly, the way the prickling, itching pain sent him further into his tantrum. Snapshot: Blood trickling down his forearms to his chubby fists, drenching his whole world in red the shade of rage. 

Mycroft sat Sherlock on the kitchen counter and undressed him. He brought out the First-aid kit from under the sink and tended to every single scratch and open wound on Sherlock’s body, from the pads of his toes to the crown of his head. Sherlock never thanked Mycroft; he screamed and hit every time the disinfectant burned, and afterwards would only complain about the Band-Aids that covered him. 

Later: Sherlock’s crib, pushed up against a window, providing a view of the back of the house. Dawn leaking into that window, and the distinct, snapping sound of garden shears stirring little Sherlock to wakefulness. Him, peaking out at the window from behind the wooden bars of his bed, and seeing a silhouette out there in the distance, working tenderly on the wounded roses. It was a man’s shadow, but not a man he had ever seen before; it wasn’t the cook, or the butler, or even the gardener. He faced the rosebushes, back turned toward Sherlock. Briefly, when the man looked up to see the rising sun, he adjusted his spectacles. Snapshot: Those spectacles throwing off a beam of sunlight, blinding Sherlock for just a moment. 

Sherlock curled back into his blanket and went to sleep. In the morning, the man with the shears was gone, although the frayed roses were cleared away, and the merely injured stems had been tended to. In Sherlock’s four year-old brain, it was quite obvious that the man had been a ghost. 

Sherlock comes back to the present. “I don’t have a very good memory,” he lies. “I can’t recall much about my childhood – nothing specific.” 

“Alright then,” says the Professor. Sherlock isn’t sure whether or not the Professor believes him, but he doesn’t press. “What were your general relationships, then? With your parents? Any siblings you had?” 

Snapshot: On Mummy’s lap, her fingers dancing through his curls. Her laugh, the laughter of other women. Pleasant conversation. Soft, light voices, mixed with the clinks of fine china, like a lullaby to Sherlock’s ears. Curling up in Mummy’s skirt, sleeping at the tea table. 

Snapshot: Mycroft wiping a knife – and a considerable quantity of peanut butter – across a slice of wheat bread. Sherlock’s tongue glued to his palate with peanut butter, his fingers sticky with jelly. A wet napkin in Mycroft’s big hands, cleaning the jelly away. 

Snapshot: Mycroft sitting across from him on the carpet, a handful of magnets between them. Bright, colorful, plastic. The alphabet. _“Show me B, Sherlock. Show me B.”_

Snapshot: Hearing those shears at dawn, or sometimes even midnight. Whenever the sun was weak, the heat not so oppressive. Sherlock, one day, crawling out of his crib, falling on his knees to the floor. Going downstairs while the rest of the house slept, and waiting by the backdoor. The ghost coming in when the sun rose. Sherlock so surprised he barely caught sight of the phantom before he drifted past, the phantom himself so lost in thought he didn’t notice the waiting boy. Sherlock running down the hall, scared to death of the garden-monster but eager to discover the truth about him. Pitter-patter, little feet, hurried and unheard. Following the ghost to the edge of a narrow hall, where Sherlock stopped for fright. Snapshot: The door at the end of the hall, which the ghost drifted through. Snapshot: Heart pounding as Sherlock hurried back to bed, positive he had found the monster’s lair. 

“My relationships were typical,” Sherlock says now. “My mother was attentive, affectionate. My brother was…protective. Parental, in some ways. But that’s typical amongst elder siblings, is it not?” Sherlock’s gaze narrows in on his own fingernails. 

“It is,” the Professor confirms. If he notices that Sherlock hasn’t mentioned his father, he doesn’t pry. Instead he says, “Do you have any memories from school?” 

“I went a private school during my kindergarten year,” Sherlock says. Back to objective facts. Much better. 

“And after that?” 

“Homeschooled,” says Sherlock, frowning. He thinks of his headmaster, saying, _“We’re afraid that if your son doesn’t begin receiving weekly therapy sessions, he will no longer be permitted to attend our school.”_

“Can you remember even one specific thing about your interactions with your peers?”

Sherlock’s first day of school: In the middle desk in the front row, a dark-skinned boy with his uniform tie tied too loosely. Sherlock’s had been tied just right by Mycroft. Sherlock was pleased with how well-groomed he looked, compared to some of his rumpled-clothed, or boogie-plagued, classmates. At the time, his special interest had nothing at all to do with detective work. Instead, he loved arachnids. All kinds. Scorpions, spiders, tarantulas. He brought great distress to the heart of Mummy by finding pristine spider webs in the garden, and capturing them between two panes of glass, which Mycroft would then frame. It was, to Sherlock, the most delightful pastime a boy could ever imagine. He wanted nothing more than to share it.

Without hesitation, he marched up to the dark-skinned boy’s desk and opened a book he had brought from home. It revealed one of his favorite photographs of the _Euscorpius flavicaudis,_ on page 46.

“Did you know,” Sherlock began, “that there are nearly 2,000 species of scorpions, and one of the species has colonized _here,_ in the U.K.? Most people think that scorpions are really harmful, but these ones hardly ever use their stingers. The _Euscorpius flavicaudis_ lives in Kent, because it likes moderate – ”

And that was when the boy fully processed the photograph and started screaming.

Later, the teacher reprimanded Sherlock. 

“Is it true you showed Rehan a book of scary pictures?” the teacher asked.

“That is not true,” Sherlock said in a voice of boyish indignation. “I showed him _The Arachnids of Europe_ by John Fletching. 1955, first edition.”

This hadn’t much helped Sherlock’s case.

Sherlock recounts this story to the Professor. The Professor doesn’t laugh as he tells it, although everyone else, including John, has. He looks serious enough when he says, “Do you remember how you felt when that happened, Sherlock?”

“Confused,” Sherlock says. “I thought scorpions were fascinating – I thought he’d want to be my friend.”

“And you wanted a friend, yes?”

_No, never. Stupid thing to want. Waste of time. Never needed one. Sentimental, weak –_

_I am_ not _a sociopath._

“Yes,” Sherlock says sincerely.

“Did you have any peer interaction after you were homeschooled?”

“No,” says Sherlock. “Mummy thought my leaving the estate would sully me.”

The Professor frowns. “She homeschooled you herself, then?”

“No, Father did that,” says Sherlock. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the Professor looks mildly surprised.

“And what was that like?”

_Wonderful._ “It was nice,” Sherlock says noncommittally. “He was a well-educated man.”

“Can you describe a memory involving him?”

A memory comes to mind immediately: Meeting his father. Facing the ghost at the end of the hall. The monster with shears for hands. The silent specter with his mouth sewed shut. His father had, over the years, been reduced to – or built up to – a phantasmagoric form that lurked in the darkest haunts of young Sherlock’s imagination. 

“Mummy, please,” Sherlock begged. She was dragging him down the hallway he never went through. Strange to imagine such a thin, delicate woman ever being stronger than him. “Please, Mummy, _please._ Don’t make me. Get Mycroft to teach me, pleeeease. Mycroft knows _everything.”_

The hall was dimly-lit, uncomfortable. Stifling, as if no living being had passed through it for many years, no one’s breathing displacing the dust, no one’s warmth cutting through the cold. Just the ghost, gliding back and forth each night.

“Mycroft is busy with his own schoolwork, dear. Come along, Sheryl. You’ll break my pearl bracelet if you keep pulling.”

“Mycroft gets to go to school,” Sherlock sniffed. Against his will, his mother continued to succeed in dragging him along. “Why can’t I? I want to go back. I didn’t do anything wrong, I _promise.”_

“Of course you didn’t, dear,” Mummy cooed. Then her fine features darkened. “To accuse a _Holmes_ of _madness._ No, Sheryl, you’ve done nothing wrong. The school just made the terrible mistake of trying to tarnish our family name. _Therapy sessions_ \- ridiculous! But you’ll show your _ex-_ headmaster how little you need him, won’t you? You’ll be good for your father, won’t you?”

By then they made it to the dreaded end of the hall. Towering above Sherlock was a knocker in the center of the door before them. It was too high for Sherlock to reach, but he wouldn’t have wanted to touch it anyway, as it frightened him. It was gilded in gold and depicted a leering, bearded man with grapes wrapped around his head. (Sherlock would learn later that it was Bacchus.) His mother knocked three times. 

They heard a noise within, like a book falling on a desk. The room’s occupant – the ghost, the monster, the demon, his father – must have been startled. The knocker was coated in a fine layer of dust; clearly the creature that lurked inside did not often receive visitors. 

A few moments later, the door opened. A face peered out at them. Sherlock was surprised. The face had not a demon’s features, but only those of a man. The man was not peculiar in the slightest. Rather than being undead or ancient, he looked as young as Mummy. He was, however, much taller than Mummy. Taller, in fact, than anyone Sherlock had ever seen before. Probably six whole feet! He looked down at Sherlock, regarding the boy with equal curiosity. He had high cheekbones and the exact same shade of eyes as Sherlock’s. Round spectacles balanced precariously on the bridge of his long nose, casting an academic air over handsome features. His entire countenance possessed a childlike innocence, and Sherlock felt himself warmed. All at once the notion in Sherlock’s head, of his father being the ghost of the estate, was replaced by something much lighter. 

“Hoc est eum?” the man asked. He had a pleasant, bass voice, but the strange words he gargled made Sherlock reach for Mummy’s hand. 

“Est,” Mummy said, nudging Sherlock forward. 

“What are you saying?” Sherlock asked Mummy. The man tilted his head at his wife, a small frown on his lips. 

“Facit puer non lingua?” 

“Non tamen,” said Mummy. 

The man shook his head, placing his hand across his face in exasperation. He rubbed his temples with long, bony fingers. After a moment he regained his composure and farther opened the door, gesturing for Sherlock to enter. He waved to his wife and, once Sherlock was in the room, closed the door. 

The office was a cluttered, antiquated mess: it was filled with Victorian oddities, including a Penny-farthing bicycle in the corner; Persian rugs and warm, Rococo furniture littered the hardwood floor; shelves displayed leather bound tomes and, most prominently of all, tapestries lined the walls. They were intricate and awe-inspiring, depicting various mythological scenes that brought horrors to Sherlock’s mind: Arachne turning into a spider, Cronus eating his children, Sisyphus with a boulder on his back, Hercules’s wife being attacked by the centaur Nessus. 

Sherlock looked at all of these with widened eyes. His father waited patiently while he took everything in. When he finally got to the bookshelves, however, Sherlock was displeased. 

“These books aren’t in English,” Sherlock huffed. He looked at his father, who nodded. “So you _do_ understand English?” His father nodded again. “But you won’t speak it?” 

“Cito discere Latin,” his father said. 

Sherlock pouted, crossing his arms. “How are you supposed to teach me if I can’t understand you, or read any of your books? I want to go back to school! Get Mummy to take me back to school!” 

Without meaning to, Sherlock began to cry. He fell to the floor and pounded his tiny fists against the rug, bringing up puffs of dust. 

“I WANT TO GO BACK TO SCHOOL,” he shouted. His father made a small choking noise and took a step toward Sherlock, before backing away completely. The man’s hands fluttered uselessly in a panic. “MUMMY. MUMMY. COME BACK. BRING ME TO SCHOOL!” Sherlock wailed. 

His father stood there for a while, watching his son’s tantrum, occasionally revealing his fright through a moan or the way he wrung his hands around his cravat. Sherlock’s meltdown carried on for nearly an hour, however, during which time his father seemed to give up, and went back to his writing desk. Sherlock pounded on the study door and wiggled its doorknob, but found that Mummy had locked it from the outside. He cried and cried until, exhausted, he slumped against the wall and looked up at his father. 

“How will you teach me?” he asked, sniffling. He wiped his tears and snot on his sleeve and his father looked up from his desk. When he saw that Sherlock was done making noise, he smiled and approached the boy, lowering himself on his knees. 

“Sherlock,” his father said. “Ego sum Pater.” He pointed to Sherlock’s chest and said, “Sherlock,” then pointed at himself and said, “Pater.” 

“Pater,” Sherlock repeated. “How will you teach me?” 

Pater shook his head, and said, “Pater, quomodo docere me?” 

“Pater, quomodo…” Sherlock frowned. 

“Quomodo docere me?” his father said, and this time Sherlock repeated the phrase back to him. His father grinned, looking delighted, and rested his hands lightly on his son’s shoulders before taking them off. Sherlock would soon learn that this was his father’s version of a hug. Pater wiped one of Sherlock’s tears away and reached for his desk. Stretching, he retrieved a book and handed it to his son. Sherlock took it and looked at the cover. 

“M-meta…morphoses?” Sherlock said. His father nodded eagerly, so he kept reading: “Ab Ovid.” 

His father clapped once, and stood. “Nos incipient!” 

The adult Sherlock shakes himself out of his reverie and says, “A memory of him? I can’t recall, sorry.” 

“He homeschooled you, and yet you claim to have absolutely no memories whatsoever of your father,” the Professor states. He says it like it’s a fact he accepts, but even to Sherlock this sounds absurd. 

“No, there are a few,” Sherlock says. “A few I can share.” 

“Like what?” 

“He was interested in Philosophy. He taught me to read and speak Latin fluently, and would spend hours translating Ancient Greek works into Latin, so that I could read them.” 

Snapshot: A magnifying glass in his father’s left hand, moving across and down a page as he read. A feather quill in his right hand, translating the work he read as he was reading it. Sherlock would sit with a book in an armchair across the office, peaking up every now and then, mesmerized by his father’s unceasing, steady movements. 

From his books Sherlock learned lots of things that a boarding school would have never taught him. From Thales he learned that everything is made out of water, and from Pythagoras that beans are forbidden. He learned how to calculate the size of the globe from Eratosthenes, and from Aristotle he learned about government. Physics, linguistics, biology, zoology – it was all taught to Sherlock, in his father’s translated works, and all from men who lived thousands of years ago. A quality education for any Roman boy. 

Now, Sherlock’s fists clench. “Actually,” he says suddenly, “I’d rather talk about something else.” 

“Alright.” The Professor inclines his head. 

“My father owned a violin. He taught me to play,” Sherlock says, a small smile creeping on his lips. 

“Do you still?” 

“Play? Yes.” 

Father rarely spoke – preferring, instead, gentle gestures of his hands, or a slight alteration in his facial muscles, indicative of some change of emotion. When he did speak, it was in the ancient tongue, understood fluently by only some dozen people today. No, the body language and Latin were both rubbish. Father’s real voice was his violin. 

Every summer Sherlock went to the Netherlands with Mycroft and Mummy, visiting Mummy’s sister. For weeks before Sherlock left, his father would stand by his study window, playing out a low, doleful dirge, the sobs of a lonely man. And when Sherlock returned, the study would be filled with cheery, chirpy tunes, so free-spirited that they made Sherlock giggle. For the anachronism that was Mr. Holmes, music was timeless, the only fluid tool capable of transporting his thoughts into the outer world. 

“And how did he teach you?” the Professor asks. But, even as he speaks, Sherlock thinks of a memory that sears across his mind, burning until he brushes it away. 

“I can’t remember,” Sherlock blurts. 

“Mr. Holmes, isn’t there _anything_ about your past life that you recall at all?” 

Snapshot: Father and Sherlock in the garden at night, squatting beside one another, waiting eagerly, patiently, in silence, for the night-blooming _Ipomoea muricatae_ to uncurl their petals. Mycroft coming outside. 

_“Come in, Sherlock, it’s past your bedtime.”_

_“Pater and I are waiting for the_ Ipomoea muricatae _to bloom!”_

Snapshot: In the garden, Mycroft when he saw his father. Eyes flashing full of contempt. Sherlock confused, couldn’t understand why. 

Snapshot: Crying on Aunt’s balcony in Delft, South Holland. The French doors opening behind Sherlock, Mycroft walking through. 

_“Don’t cry for father, Sherlock, don’t miss him. Be happy you’re away from him.”_

_"His name is Pater!"_

Snapshot: Mycroft giving Sherlock a box of books for Christmas. Sherlock bringing them to his father’s study, so that father could burn them, turn all the English words to cinders and ash. 

“No,” Sherlock says. “My memory is absolutely blank.” 

“Well, then, I suppose there’s nothing to be done,” says the Professor, rising. He takes a long time to rise, groans as he does it, revealing his age. He places his chair back beneath Luke’s desk and goes to the doorway. 

“Are you still tired, Mr. Holmes?” he asks. 

“More than ever,” Sherlock answers. 

“Then rest, Mr. Holmes. Rest.” He closes the door behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
> Also, here's the English translations of the Latin. Please note that the Latin is Google Translate-provided, and therefore mostly wrong. So this is was it's _supposed_ to say, rather than what it does say:
> 
> “Hoc est eum?” This is him?  
> “Est.” It is.  
> “Facit puer non lingua?” The boy doesn’t know the language?  
> “Non tamen.” Not yet.  
> “Cito discere Latin.” You will learn Latin.  
> “Quomodo docere me?” How will you teach me?  
> “Nos incipient!” We begin!  
> __
> 
> Next chapter...back to the present.


	14. Texts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across... Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic." - Sherlock Holmes, A Study in Scarlet

They have five more days in New York City before leaving for Berlin. Sherlock is bored, irritable, and feeling more and more foul whenever he considers the cause of his ennui; the last four days have been spent avoiding the Professor (who has not sought him out) and avoiding Anabelle (who refuses to leave him alone). He's been forced to waste his own time, because Anabelle thought it appropriate to try to hoodwink him into some type of therapy. The entire plot is insulting and patronizing to an unprecedented degree. Their disagreement over his mental health has led, already, to several heated arguments, all of which Sherlock planned for and anticipated, if only because they serve as temporary relief from his current unbearable state. He likes to choose the time and place for their arguments, which typically means that he will wake her up in the middle of the night, or catch her while she's meditating, or start yelling at some other time when she thinks herself entirely relaxed. It is, perhaps, cruel, but nothing she doesn't deserve. And she certainly never surrenders. 

Embarrassingly, their last fight had ended in her victory. "I don't need your help," he'd said coldly, during the middle of an argument, "because I am entirely self-sufficient." 

"Ah, yes," she had said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "it was very self-sufficient of you to travel to Sudan with a dozen of your big brother's men." 

"Just as your inability to travel without a man is very feministic of you," he'd spat. "Gloria Steinem must be _applauding_ in her grave." 

"Gloria Steinem is alive, you idiot," she'd said flatly. This comment had led to an entirely different argument regarding knowledge acquisition, and the general public's mental collection of useless information, and how Sherlock thought it unbefitting for someone as intelligent as Dr. Madder to clutter her thoughts with irrelevant facts. She'd laughed at that, saying, "That's the stupidest theory on knowledge acquisition I've ever heard! Surely you don't really believe that the brain has a limited capacity for knowledge?"

She'd paused, but not long enough to give him time to respond. She'd realized something. "No. No, of course you're not that stupid. That's just an excuse, isn't it? That's your excuse for not knowing something. You made some cock-and-bull theory you know has no merit, and you spout it out every time someone knows something you don't, so that you can sound _more_ intelligent than the person who knows something to which you are ignorant. Astounding, Sherlock. Your ego knows no bounds." 

And that had essentially been the conclusion of their last argument. He hadn't let her have the last word, of course; he'd stalked out of the room after pointing out some made-up flaw in her character, but was positive that both of them felt she had won. This leaves him seething. 

He's certain that she feels smug about their disagreement, and has been reflecting on it with an air of satisfaction. This is why he's surprised when he finds her in Luke's bedroom in the evening, looking for all the world like they'd never fought at all. She stands like she's been waiting for him, and he immediately registers that, although she's in her typical jeans and boots, she's also wearing a particularly nice blazer, making her better-dressed than usual. Meaning: She has plans. 

"What do you want?" he demands, regarding her suspiciously. She smiles. 

"You weren't going to go to bed now, were you? It's only seven o'clock," she says. 

"I'm tired," he says. It's true; alarmingly, he's found himself sleeping over twelve hours a day most of the time, and yet always feels unrested. It's because of the ceaseless ennui, he's sure. Tediousness kills the brain and body. 

"It's one of our last nights in New York. We need to go out!" she says. 

"Why would we - " But before he can finish his sentence, she grabs his hand and drags him out of Luke's bedroom. He follows after her. 

"You didn't come down for dinner tonight," she explains once they're outside, walking down the pavement, "so I thought you might be hungry." Her neighborhood in Manhattan is much nicer than his in London, although this doesn't make him like it. He doesn't enjoy having to rely on her for directions, and, rather than appreciating the lack of homelessness in this particular cluster of city blocks, he finds himself missing even his homeless network. 

"Nor did I last night," Sherlock points out. He uses his Norwegian accent outside, just to be safe. His colored contacts, which he'd taken out in the apartment, are back in again. 

"One would think you're angry with me," Anabelle says. 

"One might be correct," he says. 

She smiles, looking up at him as they continue walking. "Or incorrect?" 

"Or incorrect," he admits. 

"And one should probably realize that Dr. Anabelle Madder never meant to offend a certain Mr. Sigerson Boler, but only to offer him some fiery form of entertainment, as she thought it might be the cure to the monotony through which he's been suffering lately." 

"You called me an idiot," he points out. 

"I meant it fondly," she says. Although she doesn't know it, this reminds him so much of John that she's quite abruptly, and thoroughly, forgiven. She's even forgiven again when she drags him into the dark and foul-smelling underground to take the subway rather than catching a cab. 

"Only tourists take taxis," she says decisively, as she leads him down the stone steps and pulls out her wallet, to buy a Metrocard. 

The subway car is crowded and uncomfortable. Being with Anabelle makes all the difference, however; they stand opposite each other, separated by a black woman who is enthusiastically mouthing the lyrics to some imagined song, several Chinese businessmen, and a Hispanic couple. As the car shifts and rocks, with New Yorkers occasionally bumping into him, Sherlock stiffly takes hold of the pole in front of him, keeping his balance. The pole is hot from where phantom hands recently pressed against it, making him feel vaguely mysophobic. He closes his eyes, trying to block out the sound of the subway grinding against its tracks, and the people talking, and the sour scent of human perspiration. Suddenly, he feels something warm against his fingers. When he opens his eyes, he sees that Anabelle has taken hold of the pole too, and she's interlocked her fingers with his. He doesn't pull away. 

They go into Chinatown. 

"The Dumpling House has some of the best food in the city," she says, as they approach the said eatery. "It's a little crowded, though, if you'd like to wait outside." 

"I'm fine," Sherlock says quickly, and follows her indoors. She hadn't been exaggerating; the Dumpling House is full of people ordering at the counter and eating at small tables, in close proximity with one another. Sherlock lets Anabelle lead him to the register and stands behind her as she orders. When one of the Chinese women behind the counter starts yelling out order numbers, he rests his hands on Anabelle's shoulders, feeling her warmth, and feeling the rough material of her blazer. And ultimately just feeling very, very grounded. 

They eat in a nearby park, away from the busyness of the Dumpling House. Anabelle ordered Sherlock vegetable dumplings and mung bean soup, which she now retrieves from a brown paper takeout bag. 

"The food is great," she assures. 

He nods. "Yes, quite." 

She laughs. "You haven't tried it yet." 

"No. But you can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle - " Suddenly, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He takes it out and flips it open. It's from Mycroft. 

**8:47 P.M.** _Trial conclusion: Acquitted. Moran and Gruner have been released._

The whole world abruptly shushes. It waits, watching for Sherlock's next move. Sherlock's mind whirls into action, planning his next steps before he even reads the end of the text. Objective: Destroy Moriarty's web of crime. Method of destruction: End Moran and Gruner. He'll need to get Mycroft's men to follow both Moran and Gruner, as they'll doubtlessly leave the U.K. immediately - perhaps even Europe. Will they come here? To America? Should he wait to find out? It would certainly make things more convenient. He'll have to be the one to kill them, of course. Mycroft and his assistants can scarcely kill two men who have just been acquitted in a very publicized trial. There are limits to what even Mycroft Holmes can do. Sherlock, though, presumed dead, would be the perfect assassin... It's really only a matter of tracing the men, finding them before they're lost. 

Anabelle doesn't have to read the text to know what it says. Silently, she begins packing up the dumplings, thoughts racing equally fast. Then the phone buzzes again. Sherlock opens it as Anabelle watches. He takes a long time to read this text, although she can tell from the movement of his eyes that he's not scanning over any long lines of letters. Therefore, he's reading something short. And rereading it. And rereading it again. Finally, he swallows, his Adam's apple quivering, and he holds the phone out to her. She doesn't need to read this message, either, though, as he soon opens his mouth to speak. His voice comes out thick and raspy, a little disbelieving, although it was something they were both expecting, something they would have been anticipating if they'd been keeping better track of time.

"It's John," he says. "He was released two days ago." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's confused about the timeline, it's June 18th, 2012. Unfortunately, I based my story's timeline off of one very incorrect post on someone's Tumblr and the dates on John's blog (which are wrong, too). Buuuut try to just go with it. :)


	15. Goodbye, Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s an incorrect storm. But why?_

The rain begins immediately. Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket, and proceeds to slip into his own mind. The last image he sees before succumbing to dissociation is Anabelle Madder, reaching out to him, lips moving.

Her words are drowned out by the rumbling of the thunder (or is that white noise coming from his own head?), but he imagines she’s saying, _“Goodbye, goodbye,”_ as he rises and begins walking, half-blind, down the pavement.

This is not his detective state. This is not Sherlock Holmes, spry and snarky and on the case. This is Sherlock Holmes left alone for days in the flat, after John decided to fly to New Zealand without telling him. His senses are numbed. Visually, he perceives the world as a charcoal imitation of itself, smudged in blacks and greys, all the details blurred away.

He’s led to the underground, where Anabelle fumbles around for their Metrocards. Outwardly, he is nearly catatonic, his eyes eerily unblinking, his body stiff. He doesn’t so much as sway when the subway car comes to its jerky halts. He’s thinking, all of his energy focused inwards, all of his senses inverting.

By the time they emerge from the subway, blocks from the Madder apartment, the rain is pouring. Black umbrellas pop up all over the streets, and these prove to be the obstacle that forces him back to reality for a bit. With dreamlike, graceful motions, he ducks and darts out of the way of careless pedestrians, neatly avoiding getting jabbed in the eye.

 _John could run right beneath these umbrellas._ It’s an automatic thought, and he pushes it away immediately.

_It’s morning in London right now. Is this storm in London? Could it be waking John up?_

He shoves the thoughts away. But they’re relentless.

_Is he even sleeping? Or is he celebrating his newfound freedom? Is he darting beneath black umbrellas? Is he…?_

* * * *

In the Madder apartment, Anabelle brings Sherlock up to the Professor’s study, where two of the four walls are bordered by oversized windows, giving a very excellent view of the storm. Lightning flashes every few minutes, lighting up the room like a sporadic strobe light. Raindrops, fat and heavy and bountiful, splatter against the glass panes of the windows. Sherlock watches the chaos, feeling unsettled. Something is wrong, somehow, with the weather outside. It’s an incorrect storm. But why?

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

He hears the voice but not its words; he sees the body as a simulacrum of something corporeal, a cluster of shadows. He steps around it, nearing the window, and glances at the storm again. Then he turns back, pacing in a circle.

“So we’ll have to – ”

He steps around the noise again.

Oh. Noise. _Noise._ Yes! That’s it! The _noise_ is wrong. There’s the occasional rumble of thunder, of course, and that’s expected. But something is missing. The raindrops – they’re streaking against the glass, fogging up the view, but he can’t _hear_ them. There’s no roof directly above him. He’s staying in a flat in an apartment building, like a bee occupying his bit of hive. Strangers walk above him where a roof should be. And strangers dull the sound of raindrops.

“Can you even hear me, Sherlock? Are you listening to my ideas at all?”

If, in theory, John were home right now, in 221B, and awake, he would be hearing the incessant plinks of a million little rain-fingers tapping against the roof. And that roof would be the only thing above him, and it would be his roof – their roof – and it would protect them from the rain, and from the city bustle that drives Sherlock insane, and from John’s war that drives _him_ insane. The roof would keep out the isolation, too, by keeping them in, together, with Mrs. Hudson snoozing below them.

“Stop pacing, please, Sherlock!”

That’s what the rain does. It reminds him of a roof, miles and miles and an ocean away, and of all the things that once occupied the space beneath that roof.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me…?”

* * * *

It’s a simple song. He wrote it about John, and he plays it now. Although, when he thinks about it, he can’t remember leaving to fetch his violin, and he can’t remember coming back. Minutes have elapsed, and shadows stretch across his mind where memories should be. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to recall. He needs to pace, around and around this shrouded room. He needs to play, to cover up the absence of raindrops falling against a roof.

The song is a childish exaltation. He’d written it the night after John shot the cabbie. He’d thought he was writing about that, but who writes a tune fit for a jubilee in response to having seen a man murdered? Not even Sherlock would do that.

The notes sing to him, and they don’t mention a cabbie. _Yippee!_ the chorus seems to say. _Hooray! John saved the day! And I’ve finally found a friend! I’ll never be alone again! Wahoo, yippee, hooray!_

The door of the study creaks open, but Sherlock’s too busy playing and pacing to notice.

“Sherlock, please, it’s been over an hour.”

_Whoopee! Dee-la-dee! John has saved the day!_

“Stop pacing, just a few minutes?”

_A friend, a friend, a friend!_

“Please, Sherlock.”

_I’ve finally found a friend!_

“At least give me Mycroft’s number.”

_Never alone again!_

“You’re going to break your violin.”

_John – oh, yes – oh, yay! John has saved the day!_

“Stop it!” The bow is swiped from Sherlock’s hands, slipping through his fingers even as he grabs to get it back. He’s snapped from his reverie.

He returns to reality. He sees again. It’s not as if his vision returns, but rather it’s as if he always saw, but only now has the world decided to be rational, the furniture from the office appearing out of thin air, piecing together, arranging itself. The floor is conjured up beneath his feet. Anabelle materializes before him. The universe is whole again.

Sherlock tilts his head. He looks curiously at his violin.

“Did you hurt it?” Anabelle asks.

Echoic memory: The human brain’s ability to recall the last several second’s worth of auditory information with reliable accuracy. Sherlock now recalls, for instance, that he had not been playing John’s song at all. He’d been walking in circles and abusing his violin ruthlessly. The piece – not a piece, just notes thrown violently together – had actually been sad. Like an innocent animal left for dead, wounded and wailing horrendously.

Sherlock clears his throat. “I…apologize for the cacophony,” he says. Then he cocks an eyebrow at her, as if expecting something.

“What?” Anabelle asks.

“Well…?”

“Well what?” she says.

“Where are they?”

She stares blankly.

“Moran and Gruner!” Sherlock says. “Surely you haven’t done _nothing_ for the past hour? Haven’t you been planning?”

“How could I have?” she says.

“You didn’t think to text Mycroft?”

“I asked you for his number. Repeatedly. A while ago,” she says, voice deadpan. Sherlock pauses. He may have subconsciously registered those requests in a vague sort of way.

“Ah, yes, well,” he says, clearing his throat again. “Here’s his number.” He gets out his phone. “Just use my mobile, actually. It’s safer.”

“Can’t you text him yourself, now that you’re…here?” she says, although Sherlock’s fairly certain he never actually went anywhere. Not physically, at least.

“Ah. Yes. Of course I can,” Sherlock says quickly, and he writes a text message to Mycroft. It reads:

_Where is John?_

Wait. That’s not right. He presses the ‘clear’ button and restarts. Needs to ask where Moran and Gruner are. He types:

_Where is John?_

He frowns, tries again, fails, and shoves the mobile into Anabelle’s hand.

“Ask him where they are,” he demands. She shoots him an inquisitive look, but complies. “We need to know if they’re leaving Europe.”

“Regardless of where they are, we’ll still have to go to Berlin tomorrow morning. I did research there in graduate school, on cryptanalysis. We have a lot of data to delete.”

“Of course,” Sherlock says. Eradicating the Sasaki Code is their first priority; if Gruner and Moran were to replicate the code, Sherlock and Anabelle would have a much harder job of getting rid of them. And, should the Sasaki Code be replicated by the enemy, then it would be impossible to destroy either entirely. It would spread too quickly to too many criminals across the globe, wreaking too much havoc for two people to control.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzes. Anabelle flips it open.

“Gruner is on his way to Paris,” Anabelle says, reading. “And Moran, as of right now, is still in London.”

“Still in London?” Sherlock blinks. “Why would he stay in London?”

“He’ll never leave London,” Anabelle answers, and she sounds so decisive that Sherlock stares at her.

“What did you just say?” he says. She looks up at him.

“He’ll never leave London,” she repeats.

“He’ll never leave London?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“Never,” Anabelle confirms, not noticing his suspicious expression. “He’s far too attached to the city.”

There is a moment of silence. Neither of them blink.

“You know Moran,” Sherlock finally states. “Colonel Sebastian Moran. Why would _you_ know him?”

“We've met before.” Anabelle shrugs. “He was nice. In a scary sort of way.” When Sherlock continues to stare at her, she says, “What?”

“You’re not telling me something. Something important,” he says.

“It’s an incredibly dull story.”

“I want to hear it.”

“It’s very boring.”

“It could help us find him.”

“It really couldn’t.”

“Tell me anyway,” he says. “I want to know.”

“It’s dull.”

“I can cope with a little dullness.”

“It’s a romance.”

“Not that much dullness,” he says quickly, and changes the subject. “Right. So. We’ll go after Gruner first, if you’re positive Moran will stay in London?”

“Pretty positive, yes,” she answers.

“He's predictable. Interesting,” Sherlock thinks aloud.

“Why is that interesting?”

“Because Moriarty wasn’t,” he answers. Then he continues with his plan, “We’ll head to Berlin, then immediately make our way to Paris and track Gruner down. Tell Mycroft to book the tickets. And ask him how much criminal protection he thinks Gruner is being given.”

“Of course,” Anabelle answers, typing away.

“I’ll look up the plane times from Berlin to Paris,” Sherlock decides, and he heads towards the Professor’s desk. He clicks at the Professor’s Mac, and the screen comes to life. He intends to go to Google and search for plane tickets. Sincerely, he does. But his fingers, as if moving with a will of their own, type instead, www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk.

John posted an entry two days ago. It contains one sentence.

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

Sherlock snorts. What a stupid, plebeian thing to say. What sort of grown man uses the term ‘best friend’? And how could he believe in Sherlock? Sherlock, who threw himself off of a rooftop, who insisted he was a fraud? As always, John isn’t seeing the evidence. He’s an idiot. He’s staring proof in the face and denying that it’s there. No – it’s worse than that. He’s acknowledging the proof. He’s posted, below his sentence, a video of some dull news report on Sherlock’s suicide. John sees the proof. He doesn’t ignore it. But he reaches the wrong conclusions regardless. He believes the opposite of what any logical human being of average intelligence would believe. He’s an idiot.

But he’s right. He’s completely right.

_John, John, the conductor of light! He’s right, he’s right, he’s right!_

“How much is it?” Anabelle’s voice sounds over his tune.

“To fly from Berlin to Paris?” Sherlock says, thinking fast. “Erm…300 euros.”

“Really? Not bad.”

“Mm.” Sherlock looks back at the screen.

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

“Right. Well. Our plane for Berlin leaves in just hours. Be up at five A.M., okay?” Anabelle says, and she steps toward the doorway. She says ‘be up at,’ and not ‘be up by,’ indicating that she’s well aware that Sherlock likely won't sleep tonight.

How could he, with such a irritatingly cheerful tune in his head?

_Yippee, wahoo, hooray! He’s right, he’s right, he’s right!_

* * * *

It’s one o’clock when Sherlock finally succumbs. He scrambles out of Luke’s bed, where he had been making a pathetic attempt at sleep, and turns on his (Sigerson’s) laptop. He writes John a message, and sends it as a comment on his blog. It takes nearly an hour to write, as he needs to sound enough like Sigerson Bøler so as to be convincing, and enough heterosexual so as to not scare John away. Finally he has:

_Dearest Jonathan,_

_I’m writing to tell you how sorry I am for the loss of your friend. I’ve been reading your blog for years – ever since you started writing about Mr. Sherlock Holmes – and it saddens me to know that the world has lost such a fantastic man. Because Sherlock was indeed fantastic. Really, really something remarkable._

_I have recently lost a friend as well. His name is Luke Madder. I’m not sure where he is, or if I’ll ever see him again. But I miss him more than anything. He is my best – and really my only – friend, and no one can replace him._

_As I feel I may know what you’re going through, I wanted to encourage you and wish you well._

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes,_

_Sigerson_

_xoxo_

He clicks ‘send,’ and then immediately refreshes the page to see John’s response. It’s still early morning in London, though. John’s probably asleep. Sherlock stays awake for the remainder of the morning anyway, refreshing the page every few minutes. Waiting.

* * * *

By five A.M. there’s still no response. Sherlock reluctantly shuts off his laptop and packs it away, hearing Anabelle’s alarm go off down the hall. They rise together, but are rooms apart, and they listen to their mutual shuffling about, the sound of clothes rustling as they dress, without speaking.

Sherlock, physically and emotionally exhausted, snaps at Anabelle when she wishes him a good morning. She makes him breakfast, for which he doesn’t thank her, and they catch a taxi to the JFK airport.

* * * *

“Anabelle, this ticket is wrong,” he says, his words tainted with his Norwegian accent. They’re standing just inside the airport, having printed out their tickets for Germany.

“Hm? How so?”

“It says the plane departs at 6:30 . We’re going to be late – ” Sherlock stops himself. His eyes flash and he crumples his ticket in his hand. “Anabelle.”

“Sigerson.”

“Get. Me. My. Ticket.”

“That is your ticket,” she says, far too happily, as if she has no idea what he’s talking about. She holds her own ticket – departing at 8:00 A.M., landing in Berlin – in her hand.

“This ticket,” he waves his abused slip of paper, “is good for a six-thirty flight to _Heathrow.”_

“Yes,” she says. “It’s only logical that we split up, for a little while. I’ll take care of the Sasaki Code in Berlin, and you take care of things in London.”

“We agreed we’d go after Gruner first!” Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth, angered by his need to use his accent, his need to sound so ridiculous, when he wants to be taken seriously.

“You don’t have to go after Moran in London,” Anabelle assures. “You just have to take care of things.”

Sherlock scowls and takes out his mobile, expecting his brother to fix everything, to promptly get him a ticket for Berlin printed. But before Sherlock can send a text, Anabelle says, “Mycroft already knows. And he _approves.”_

“You planned a trip behind my back with my _brother?”_ Sherlock asks, his voice low but scathing.

“It wasn’t behind your back. I sent the texts on your phone,” Anabelle says plainly. Sherlock clenches his fists.

“There’s no reason for me to go to London,” he says.

“But there’s even less reason for you to stay here, and I assure you that – with your brother’s help – you won’t be getting a ticket to anywhere else,” Anabelle says. “Our terminals are in completely different parts of the airport. We’ll have to split up now.”

“I could go to a different airport. I could take a bus or a train somewhere else,” Sherlock threatens.

“But you wouldn’t. Not when you want so badly to be in London,” Anabelle says. She looks at him, scanning up and down, as if considering how to best say goodbye. He imagines she’s going through all possibilities – an affectionate hug, a kiss on the cheek, a handshake. But she sees his fuming expression and only says, a little sadly, “Goodbye, Sigerson.”

He snorts derisively and turns his back to her, wheeling his suitcase in the direction of the terminal. He doesn’t look back.

* * * *

He receives a text from her when he’s on his plane.

 **7:10 A.M.** _If I were you, and John were Luke, I’d be heading home, too._

He reads it twice, searching for some scrap of solace in it. He finds none. Because that’s not true, is it? Anabelle would be going to Berlin no matter what her circumstance. She picks the rational choice, always. No matter how she feels. He’d thought he did that too. But the destination of his plane tells him otherwise.

It’s unfair. He was distraught – dissociative – when he thought that he’d be separated from John after John’s release. Now he’s going to London and he feels equally distraught, but for different reasons.

No matter where he is on the map, Sherlock can only get so close to John. He can’t announce himself, can’t proclaim his undead-ness to John. He’ll have to remain discreet, in the shadows, relying on John not to notice him (which he won’t, because he never notices anything). And that’s not much more satisfying that being half a world away from John.

Sherlock sighs. Not a second has passed since reading Anabelle’s text and having his John-related thoughts. It’s going to be a long ride.

He mentally wraps his emotional troubles up in a neat bundle and tucks them away, to take out once his plane lands. For the next seven hours, he ruminates on how to best outmaneuver Gruner.


	16. A God in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "After walks [Sherlock] has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them." -Dr. Watson, _A Study in Scarlet_

He sort of stumbles off the plane, out of the Heathrow airport, and into one of Mycroft's cars. A woman with a Blackberry in her hands takes his bags, putting them on the floor of the backseat. She successfully pretends not to notice his spandex pants, or the fact that his collared shirt has too many unbuttoned buttons for its wearer to make any claim to heterosexuality. 

“Where has Mycroft told you to take me?” Sherlock asks her. She never once lifts her eyes from her phone, but says promptly, “300 Madison Avenue, apartment 1D.”

Sherlock pulls up, behind closed eyelids, his cognitive map of London, and puts a mental pin on the address. They’re approximately thirty-seven miles away, with at least eight available routes, only three of which are worth considering. Well, two. A construction project on the edge of London was scheduled to start last week, which will currently be obstructing one of the routes. After taking traffic into consideration, it should be an hour and thirty-seven minute ride one way, or an hour and forty-one minute ride the other. 

“Am I to stay there alone?” Sherlock asks. It’s a flat, not a hotel. He knows it, as he knows all apartment buildings in London. 

“I wasn’t told,” she says. Sherlock nods and looks out the window. As they enter the city, he makes rapid fire deductions about the passersby outside, in order to entertain himself. 

Most would describe the late Sherlock Holmes as a crime specialist, and he would agree. But if they were looking for a title as all-encompassing as possible, then he would tell them that he is a _London specialist._ London is realer to him than any other place in the world. It is here that his mental collection of information is most relevant, giving the illusion that his mind works faster in London, or that his I.Q. is higher, his genius more profound. Here he can tell where a man has been from the shade of the soil on the sole of his shoe. Here he can not only tell you that a woman is a secretary, but where it is, precisely, that she works. He is a god in London. 

He’s dropped off in front of 300 Madison Ave, a red-bricked apartment building in a nicer neighborhood in the city. The woman with the Blackberry masterfully removes his luggage from the car while never dropping her phone, or leaving the vehicle herself. 

“Bye, Sigerson,” she says. It dawns on him that she has no idea who he actually is. 

_“Farvel,”_ he says, in Sigerson’s bright, flamboyant way, and the car takes off, leaving him behind. He takes a deep breath, inhaling all the sweet, polluted London air. _Home._ Then he turns around, looks at the apartment building, and walks toward it. 

* * * * 

He knocks. It’s obvious from the salmon paint on the door whose flat this is. When the flat’s occupant takes a moment before shuffling to the door, as if unused to guests, it becomes doubly obvious. 

The door creaks open. Molly stands before him. 

Mycroft doesn’t know the details of Sherlock’s disguise. Therefore, it’s impossible that he could have warned Molly about Sherlock’s bald skull, blonde eyebrows, brown eyes, or homosexual veneer. He estimates that it will take a full minute, along with two or three hints, for her to realize whom she is speaking to. 

“You!” she says immediately. She closes the door a bit, peeking out from behind it as if she’d like to hide. She’s in striped pajamas. 

“May I come in?” Sherlock asks, his accent thick. 

Molly gives a slow, dumb nod, mouth agape. They stare at one another for several seconds. 

“Today, Molly,” he says sharply. 

“Oh!” She jumps and looks at the door with mild surprise, as if she had forgotten it was there, or thought that Sherlock could simply walk through it. She opens it quickly, stepping aside, and he enters. 

He scans the room, noticing everything from the pink throw pillows and the snoozing cat, to the fact that Molly’s couch was bequeathed to her from a dear and dead aunt (heart failure). 

“I’ll be staying here for some time,” he says, kicking the door shut and dropping his bags. “Mycroft can reimburse you for the extra groceries.” 

She says nothing, only keeps staring. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she finally seems to gain some degree of control over herself. She says, “I’m so happy to see you again! I didn’t know…when I would. If I would.” 

She’s looking at him strangely. He’s not sure what about the look is strange. She’s wringing her hands together, in the nervous state that is typical for her (why is she always so nervous?), but there’s something more. A little sadness in her eyes, perhaps. But why…? 

“My brother didn’t tell you I was coming?” says Sherlock. Molly shakes her head. 

Oh, Mycroft. He must have realized that there was no possibility of Molly turning Sherlock away, so he didn’t waste his time with a phone call. Probably has a war, or some corrupt election, to deal with. Can’t be bothered with infatuated pathologists. 

“Well,” says Sherlock, “if you could keep the cat away, I think this stay will go very well indeed.” 

“His name is Toby,” she says reflexively. She’s still gawking at him, like he’s some type of apparition. He stares back, unsmiling. After a moment she says, “Would you like some…tea, maybe?” 

“Please.” He inclines his head. English tea in England. How he’s longed for it. 

* * * * 

Molly spills his tea all over his lap a few minutes later. Then, while apologizing profusely, she attempts to clean him up and presses a napkin very firmly over a rather private area, which immediately makes her jump back, blush unflatteringly, and apologize even more. 

Several minutes after _that_ , Molly makes a second batch of tea, and this time Sherlock makes sure to retrieve his own mug himself. He's aware of her watching him as he takes his first sip. He swallows and says, “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” she says, too quickly. “You – you just look so…different. And sound so different.” 

“You had no trouble recognizing me,” he points out. “One might fear that my disguise is insufficient.” 

“It’s not,” she assures. “It's just that I'd always recognize _you.”_ She looks away, taking a gulp of her too-hot tea, which makes her cough of a bit. 

Those words are cryptic, by Molly’s standards. Why would she always recognize _him?_ He’s still mulling it over when she speaks up again, saying, “You’re less intimidating as a gay man.” She laughs falsely. 

“I’m not gay,” he says. “And neither is Sigerson.” 

“Sigerson?” she asks. 

“Me,” he says. “Well, _me.”_ He pulls at the collar of his shirt, indicating his disguise. 

“Ah,” she says. “That’s good. If you _were_ \- not that there’s anything wrong with it! – but John might be a little, you know, put off.” She gives another small, false laugh. Her attempts at humor pain him. 

“John doesn’t know I’m here,” he says, voice cold. 

“Oh. He still thinks that you’re…?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You’re one of my only confidants.” Then, looking carefully aloof, he says nonchalantly, “Have you spoken to him recently? John?” 

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure I could. I mean, he was in jail for a little while, I’m not sure you know that – ” 

“I’d heard.” 

“Right. And ever since, I’ve just been avoiding it. I should see him, I guess. It would just be so strange, knowing what I know…” 

“Of course,” Sherlock agrees. Then he adds, “I never had time to thank you.” 

Molly looks at him with a face of disbelief. “For what?” 

“That should be obvious,” he says shortly. Then, mustering all of the patience he’s fairly sure he doesn’t possess, he says, “You helped me. And my friends. That warrants a thanks.” 

“Oh,” she says in a small voice. “Yes. That does, doesn’t it?” 

“Thank you, Molly.” 

“You’re welcome,” she says, smiling. She drinks her tea. “So. What have you been up to? A mission, like in the movies? Or just – ” 

“It wouldn’t be wise to discuss that,” he says caustically. 

“Oh.” She blushes. “Of course not. Right.” 

“I’ve been traveling,” he says, trying to sound polite, “but not alone. I’ve found a…” What is Anabelle, exactly? A client? A partner? An assistant? Is he _her_ assistant? (No, don’t be ridiculous.) A…friend? “I’ve found a person with whom I have been traveling,” he finally finishes. Best to stick to the objective. “I was just in New York.” 

“That’s nice,” says Molly. “I’ve always wanted to visit there. And I’m glad you haven’t been lonely.” 

He raises his eyebrows 

“You get lonely easily,” she says, by way of explanation. 

He looks at her, aware that his gaze would be piercing if it weren’t for his brown contacts. As it is, she’s able to maintain eye contact without becoming too flustered. 

“What makes you say that?” he asks. 

“Because I know you,” she says. He looks away, drinking more tea, and she says, softly, “Bart’s is lonely. Without you.” 

He clears his throat and stands. “Well, I’ll be needing sleep. I’m very tired. Will you take the couch? Where’s the bedroom?” 

“Sleep?” she says. “At eight o'clock?” 

“It’s much later in New York,” he says, condescending. 

“It’s five hours earlier in New York,” she point outs. And then adds, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. Maybe you're used to keeping weird hours, what with...work. Sorry." 

He's looks at her, thoughtful. He doesn’t ask why in the world she knows E.S.T., or ask how it was that she recognized him at the door. _You,_ she’d said, thinking fast, knowing better than to say his name aloud, although he very much doubts that Molly has ever had to keep a serious secret in her life. How is it that someone could be so painfully awkward, so tremendously ignorant, and yet have these rare insights? 

“You’re strange, Molly Hooper,” he says, triggering a look of tentative offense on her. He adds, “And on second thought, I’ll take the couch.” 

She pauses, but finally smiles. “Thank you,” she answers, and leaves the room. It’s pleasant, Sherlock thinks, to be around someone who can sense when he’s trying very, very hard to be nice. 

* * * * 

He receives the text in the morning. 

**6:10 A.M.** _John and your landlady will be at your cemetery at 9 this morning. Would you like a car?_

Sherlock tries to shake himself from sleep. He's received twelve hours of it, but feels as if he could rest his head on the couch pillow and go for twelve more. Instead he swings his legs off the couch, flips open his phone, and types to his brother, _Yes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to London, so I just made up Molly's address. I hope no one minds.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading. Comments are very appreciated.


	17. The Dirt and the Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Don’t do that. You’re making a fool of yourself, talking to the dirt like that. There’s nothing there, John. There’s nothing there. I’m right here._

Sherlock has neglected to tell anyone, including the Professor and his past therapist, what it was that initially brought him to London. The truth is, he rarely thinks of it now. But it’s impossible not to remember when he’s standing in a cemetery, looking at a headstone that clearly reads ‘Holmes.’ 

It is, in a way, aesthetically pleasing to know that what brought him out of London at thirty-four is the same thing that brought him into it at fourteen: Death. There’s a symmetry to that, a certain neatness. He likes it.

His father’s funeral had been held in London. It had been Sherlock’s first time in the city. In those days, he left the Holmes’ estate about as often as he now visits it; which is to say, very seldom indeed. He’d never been to a city in his own country before. He had not known that there _were_ cities in England. 

His father wasn’t buried in this cemetery, but the differences between this one and his are minute. There is a such fine line between saying that the two cemeteries have the same _kind_ of trees, swelling rosebushes and grey headstones, and saying that the two cemeteries have the _same_ trees, swelling rosebushes and grey headstones, that distinguishing the difference between the two doesn’t seem worth the effort. Therefore, this cemetery is, Sherlock decides, his father’s cemetery. 

His father’s cemetery is tranquil. It’s as pleasant as it can be, seeing as it holds the dead. Birds flutter and tweet atop tree branches; a cool breeze tickles the flowers left on the ground. Mycroft chose a suitable setting in which to not bury his brother’s body. Sherlock hopes John and Mrs. Hudson appreciate it. 

A taxi pulls up outside the cemetery, and the two most important people in the world get out of it. Mrs. Hudson leads John, pointing to where Sherlock’s grave is; this is John’s first time here, but not hers. 

John. He looks…objectively healthy. He hasn’t lost weight. He has circles beneath his eyes, but seeing that he’s just spent three months in jail, this is hardly surprising. Overall, he is well. Whole. Safe. 

Mrs. Hudson says something to John, and when he responds she gives his arm a gentle hug. She walks away soon, unsteadily, leaving John alone. John glances back, to make sure she’s really leaving. Why? For what does he need privacy? 

John opens his mouth, and begins to speak. 

_No, John. Stop it, John,_ Sherlock thinks. 

_Don’t do that. You’re making a fool of yourself, talking to the dirt like that. There’s nothing there, John. There’s nothing there. I’m right here._

John needs to do this, though. The more John grieves, the deader Sherlock becomes, and the safer John becomes because of it. 

During his father’s funeral, Sherlock had stayed away from Mycroft and the other grievers, rather like he stays away from John now. Sherlock had watched Mummy from afar. She’d stood at the front of the mourners, by Pater’s headstone. She had drifted, slowly, like a falling cherry blossom, to the ground. She had pressed her black gloved palms against the dirt like she could reach her husband better that way, and she stayed in that position for over an hour. Silent and tearless. The other grievers’ tears had seemed superficial, while his mother’s sadness seemed the saddest. 

John’s sadness is sad, just like Mummy’s once was. He’s still speaking. Sherlock wonders what he’s saying, but deduces it before he even intends to. 

He’s thanking Sherlock. A sense of duty. A sense of owing Sherlock, even though Sherlock only took John’s cane from him while John gave Sherlock back the world. He’s asking for Sherlock to return somehow, because he isn’t a particularly original man and that’s what grievers often do. He’d been in denial, at first, and then angry. Sherlock knows, he’s read all about the stages of grief. John’s not angry now. Sherlock can tell. 

And then John does something amazing. 

It’s not crying. Obviously he was going to do that. It’s that he rubs his eyes, after just seconds of releasing tears, and he _stops_ his crying. By sheer force of will. With an unwavering sense of self-discipline, he collects himself, stands straight, and walks away. 

John Hamish Watson, you impossible man. 

Sherlock watches his friend walk all the way out the cemetery, his arms swinging with the measured movements of a military man, and by the time he reaches Mrs. Hudson and signals for a taxi, he looks almost well. Somber, but composed. 

Sherlock wants to brush off what he’s just seen and think about his next move. He wants to figure out how much longer he’ll be staying in London, and whether or not he should join Anabelle in Berlin. He wants to demand funds from Mycroft, for Molly’s groceries. He wants to know where Gruner and Moran are now. He wants to move forward, forward, endlessly forward. 

Instead he just says, “John.” 

* * * * 

“They were, uh, all delivered. For you,” Molly tells him, back at her flat. Boxes litter her living room, all unlabeled except for stamps marking them as property of the British government. “There was a woman, with a mobile. She said to go through them as soon as possible, starting with this one.” She points to the only box on the couch. 

“Alright,” Sherlock says. He takes off his sneakers and leaves them by her door, a habit instilled in him by Anabelle. He opens the first box, saying, “Don’t go through any of these.” 

“Of course not!” she says quickly. Then adds, “Tea?” 

“That’s the fourth time you’ve offered me tea in less than twenty-four hours, Molly,” Sherlock says. “Why don’t you offer me some coffee?” 

“Right,” says Molly, frowning, and she heads off to the kitchen. He hears her coffee maker gurgle a few moments later. 

In the first box is a collection of vanilla folders. Sherlock goes through them quickly and thoroughly, finding information on both Adelbert Gruner and Sebastian Moran. He sees pictures – Gruner is black-haired, blue-eyed, and handsome. Moran is blonde-haired and brawny, with small, mean eyes and a square jaw that some women might find attractive. Gruner, at twenty-six, is younger than Moriarty, while Moran, thirty-eight, is older. 

Sherlock remembers once, years ago, when he and John had been tracking down an international gang of Chinese smugglers. They’d had to spend hours going through the book collections of two men. John had needed breaks from the monotony, but Sherlock remained animated until his goal was accomplished. Sherlock is good at going through extensive amounts of information and committing them to memory. 

Which is why it is concerning when he finds himself, after three boxes, dozing off. He drops the box to his feet, and not even the subsequent clatter is enough to rouse him, or stop his eyelids from flickering shut. His head falls back, and he is asleep. 

He has a dream. 

In the dream, he is many inches shorter and playing violin. It matters to him that he plays well, and for some reason he’s chosen a particularly difficult piece. His fingers keep shaking, and there are tears in his eyes. He’s been playing, alone, in this study, for weeks. He hasn’t left except at night, to get food from the kitchen, walking around the dark Holmes’ estate like a pale little phantom – the new, soft ghost at the end of the hall. 

“Sherlock?” The door opens and Sherlock abruptly stops playing. Mycroft stands behind him. Chubby Mycroft, home from university, his Christmas vacation extended just because his father’s dead. 

Sherlock feigns exasperation. With a _huff,_ he sets his violin down and faces the fireplace, his back to his brother. For a moment there’s only the sound of the flames cackling. 

“I brought you this,” Mycroft says finally. It’s not English he speaks. It’s broken, pieced-together Latin, fragmented and ungrammatical. He’s been studying Latin ever since father’s funeral, when Sherlock made it clear he still has no interest in English. 

Mycroft holds out an instrument. It’s Pater’s violin, the Stradivarius, gleaming and pristine. In laughably poor Latin, Mycroft says, “Maybe, instead of playing alone on your boy’s violin, you’d like to use his? You can play me a song. I’d love to hear it.” 

Sherlock turns on his heels, snarling. The sight of Mycroft, double-chinned and gargling out all that appalling Latin, his nasty fat hands all over Pater’s violin, is disgusting. Feeling violent, Sherlock snatches the violin from Mycroft’s hands and throws it into the fireplace. 

The flames flatten at first, beneath the Stradivarius, and the violin threatens to extinguish the fire. But then the fire overwhelms it, and it begins to burn. 

“Sherlock, really. There’s no need to have these – these –” Mycroft sighs, gives up on his limited Latin, and finishes in English, “ – tantrums all of the time. You’re too old for them – ” 

“That wasn’t a tantrum,” Sherlock lies, making his voice cold and unfeeling. “That was _logic.”_

“Logic?” Mycroft inquires. 

“There’s only one violinist in the house now,” Sherlock explains, “so I scarcely see any reason to own _two_ violins.” 

Mycroft repeats the Latin words in his head to make sense of them and, once he does, he sighs and says, “As you wish.” He shuts the door softly behind him. Sherlock rushes to the closed door and presses his ear against it, listening to Mycroft’s footsteps as he makes his way down the hall. Once the sound has faded, and Sherlock estimates Mycroft is a safe distance away, Sherlock dashes out of the room, down the hall, and to the kitchen. He fills a pot with tap water and races back to the study, the water sloshing over the pot’s brim and onto the rugs. He splashes the entire pot onto the fireplace, and the flames die with an angry hiss. Sherlock inspects the damage. 

The Stradivarius has diminished to a clump of ashes and burnt strings. Sherlock steps back, closes the study door, and falls to his knees before the fireplace. He begins to sob, collecting the wet ashes in his hands. 

“Pater, Pater…” he keeps repeating, holding the ashes of the injured violin to his heart, getting soot all over his white collared shirt. He whispers to it, tells it to come back, tells it how much he hates Mycroft, how it must hate Mycroft, too. 

“Don’t go because of Mycroft,” he sobs. “Please, please, don’t go. Not because of him. Not because of – ” 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. He opens his eyes. 

He sees Mycroft’s number and is reminded of his dream. He hasn’t thought about that particular memory in a long time. Inexplicably, a burst of rage bubbles up in his chest, similar to the rage he felt twenty years ago. He clicks ‘talk’ and says into the phone, “You know I prefer to text.” 

Mycroft insists on greeting him politely, which is somehow equally rude. “Hello, brother. Is the information I gave you useful?” 

“You should have sent it weeks ago.” Sherlock scowls. 

“Don’t be impractical,” Mycroft says. “Obviously those boxes aren’t allowed to leave the country. It was enough of a task to get them to Ms. Hooper’s.” 

“As if you couldn’t have managed it,” Sherlock sneers. Then, not giving Mycroft time to respond, he says, “Do you know where my Stradivarius is?” 

“It’s in your flat, along with all of your other possessions,” Mycroft says. “I’m paying rent for 221B at the moment; I’ve told your landlady to keep everything precisely as it is. I thought you might like that. She likes it, too; seems to think I’ve turned sentimental.” 

Sherlock snorts. “Unlikely.” Then he realizes something. “You’re paying the rent? What about John?” 

“He was in jail, don’t you recall?” 

“Obviously. But what about now? Are you still paying?” 

“Ah. John has…relocated. I believe he’s living with Mike Stamford until better accommodations can be found.” 

“Can’t you pay for his _better accommodations?”_ Sherlock asks, but he’s mostly just making conversation. The only thing going through his mind is, _221B is empty, 221B is empty._

“I would, of course, dear brother,” says the git. “It pains me not to. John, however, is currently under the impression that it’s _my_ fault my little sweet brother is dead, and you can imagine how angry he is with me.” 

“It _was_ your plan for me to kill myself, as I recall,” Sherlock says. 

“Ah, but let us not accredit me too fully. It was you who employed the help of Ms. Hooper, wasn’t it?” Mycroft asks. “And how is she, by the way? Still as pointlessly in love as ever?” 

“No,” Sherlock lies, not sure why he’s doing so. “She’s over her feelings for me, entirely. And how’s the diet going, since I’ve been gone? Still as pointlessly in love with cake as ever?” 

“Always so petty, aren’t you? One would think you’d be able to get over your resentments by now, especially after all of this.” He hears Mycroft sigh on the other end. “Well, I must be going. Can’t keep the German ambassador waiting for too long…” 

Both of them hang up, neither saying goodbye. Molly, annoyingly, put a thin afghan over Sherlock while he slept. It falls to the floor as he rises. After closing the last box he’d been searching through, Sherlock puts on his shoes and leaves the flat without saying goodbye. 

He walks briskly, aware enough of his surroundings to walk in the right direction, but not so aware that he thinks to get a cab. After twenty minutes of walking, his phone buzzes. 

It’s Mycroft. He ignores it. 

His phone does not stop buzzing, alternating between unread texts and unanswered calls, even as he approaches his destination. The front door, as Sherlock suspected, is unlocked, although it’s unlikely anyone is home. It’s only 2 o’clock. John probably took Mrs. Hudson out to lunch, they’re probably eating sandwiches right now. And 221B is empty, empty, empty. 

His phone buzzes one last time. He turns it off, and enters the foyer. 

He breathes in the smell of cleaning products, Mrs. Hudson’s warm perfume, and blueberry pie. He takes in the wallpaper, the dim lighting, the creak of the seventh stair. He ascends the steps and enters his flat – their flat, John and Mrs. Hudson and his. His purple sneakers press into the carpet and he looks around at the dark room. The lights are out and the curtains are drawn, but he can smell the neatness, see the shapes of stacked cardboard boxes on the kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson’s been cleaning, moving anything that seems liable to grow fungi. Must be therapeutic for her. 

Sherlock goes to his familiar, black leather armchair, knowing where it is only by memory, unable to see much. He sighs into the darkness. He ought to get up and smell John’s pillow upstairs, or something, before he leaves. It’s been months since he’s smelled something of John’s. Maybe he can leave with a few of his much-needed reference books, if he thinks no one will notice that they’re missing. But ultimately he just wants to be here, to exist for a little longer in this room.

“I knew you’d come here.” 

Sherlock sits up. There’s a man. Sitting in John’s chair. It’s not John. 

He knows who it is. Casually, he crosses his legs and stretches over, to turn on the reading lamp beside him. The room becomes illuminated, revealing both of the chairs’ occupants, and Sherlock rests his hands in his lap. 

The man grins. 

“Hello, Moran,” Sherlock says. 


	18. Cat and Tiger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tête-à-tête between Sherlock and Sebastian triggers the start of a...cat-and-tiger chase.

Some people, Sebastian thinks, have it all. Some people are born possessing enormous intellect. Their intelligence bedazzles everyone around them, drawing people toward them, giving them undeserved charisma. At least Jim, for all his brains, had been lonely his entire life. He’d never had a friend, no matter how well he dressed or spoke to his dinner guests. And he suffered in the looks department, too; he was always a short, shapeless, scruffy sort of thing, sadly reminiscent of a reptile, and that helped to soothe Sebastian's jealousy. 

But to be born with brains, have friends, and high cheekbones to boot - it's too much. And then, in addition to this extensive supply of gifts, to come back from the dead, entirely unscratched and only slightly more Norwegian. And _then!_ \- yes, there's more! - to meet the enemy that’s been waiting, in the dark, for your arrival, and to be wearing the only disguise in the world that could possibly save your life. As much as Sebastian wants to crush those clever, posh bones in his hands, he also knows that there’s only one genius in the world who has ever donned that particular disguise, and that genius isn’t Sherlock Holmes. It’s Luke Madder. Which makes things very interesting indeed. 

Of course, Sebastian hadn't been waiting for the detective _nécessairement._ While he wouldn’t put it past a genius to fake his own death – Sebastian would still be waiting around for his boss, if he hadn’t held Jim’s dead body in his own hands – he’s mostly been expecting the army doctor. Basically, he’d planned to strangle whichever man came, and then leave the corpse in a broken heap on the carpet. 

Sebastian leans forward and offers his hand. 

"When I heard you coming up the stairs,” he says, “I thought you were Ms. Madder. Wishful thinking, eh? Then, when I saw a man’s silhouette, I thought, _‘Bloody hell, it’s the detective’s ghost.’"_ He laughs. “But you must be Mr. Bøler, right? I’ve heard all about you. Don’t worry – none of it good.” He laughs again, and the detective laughs right back. 

"Yes, I am," he says, shaking Sebastian's offered hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

You'd think, for such a clever man, the detective would realize that Sebastian has no trouble seeing past disguises. Sebastian doesn't know the details of what his 'assignments' – as Jim always called them – look like. He can't remember the detective's eye color, or hair style. Sebastian has trained himself to recognize people from yards away, by their physique alone. He's been pointing a rifle at this detective for two years, and he'll be damned if he can't remember the man's measurements. Even in the dark flat, there had been no mistaking the detective's long torso, narrow waist, and thin stature. No wardrobe change can cover that up. 

_"Enchanté,"_ says Sebastian. His French comes out when he's around clever people; it's a reflex, he can't help it. It's the only thing he's got, really, when he's unarmed. "So let me guess - Ms. Madder sent you here?" 

The detective lies with a nod. 

_So lazy, Holmes, letting me make your cover story for you,_ Sebastian thinks. But he smiles stupidly, like he's eating this right up. "I knew she'd want to see the flat - or send someone else to, if she was too busy to come herself. Ms. Madder has always been so obsessed with the detective..." Sebastian glances around 221B. "I don't see his appeal, personally. Do you?" 

He has to stop from laughing himself silly when Holmes is forced to look around his own home and say of himself, "No. Seems like a completely unappealing person." 

"Say, _is_ Ms. Madder coming?" Sebastian asks, truly curious. 

"No, she's very busy," the detective says in his silly fake accent. "She just wanted me to get some of the detective's books for her. And some things from upstairs." 

_Like hell she did,_ Sebastian thinks. 

"Upstairs?" Sebastian feigns confusion. "Isn't that where the doctor's bedroom is? I thought the detective was the one she liked. The smart one."

"How do you know where John's bedroom is?" Holmes asks, too sharply. Then, realizing his mistake (while Sebastian pretends to be too dumb to notice), he says, "Maybe Ms. Madder meant the downstairs bedroom." 

Sebastian knows about the doctor’s room because he's been waiting here for days. The old housekeeper keeps coming up here in the evenings, to clean and cry, and Sebastian sneaks upstairs for an hour or so. He's put all his guns beneath the bed, where he found several medical textbooks. 

"Oh," he says. "Well, you go wherever you want." 

* * * * 

One thing is immediately obvious to Sherlock: There’s no possibility of assaulting Moran and winning. It’s simply not a match. Moran is nearly twice as wide as him, and all of his mass is hard, unadulterated muscle. It seems fitting, somehow, that the obstacle keeping Sherlock from coming home would be so very large. Moran will have to die eventually, of course. But even if Sherlock could somehow use his wits to outsmart the idiot into killing himself (and Sherlock can think of seven possible ways to do that now), he wouldn’t. Because Moran could very well have something Anabelle wants. As talkative as Moran is, it should be no trouble to get him to tell Mr. Bøler where he’s keeping Luke Madder. 

When Moran grants him permission to search about his own flat, Sherlock gets up and begins collecting some of the books he’s most missed during his travels. He doesn’t risk going into John’s bedroom to smell his pillowcase; that would seem suspicious, since Moran thinks Anabelle sent Mr. Bøler to look at the detective’s things. As curious as he is, Sherlock knows better than to ask for how long Anabelle has been interested in Sherlock, or why. That’s information he’ll seek elsewhere. For now, it’s best to pretend he knows far more than he does. 

Once Sherlock has picked out several books, dust-free due to Mrs. Hudson, Moran says, “You done now?” 

“I am,” says Sherlock. 

“Good. This place gives me the creeps. Say, I think there’s a sandwich place downstairs. You wanna grab a bite?” Moran asks. 

Moran has known Sigerson Bøler for less than ten minutes, and he’s already asking him out to dinner. It’s hardly surprising that Moriarty never let his enemies meet his sniper. Keep the idiot far, far away – he might embarrass Moriarty. And, Sherlock thinks, it must be telling that Moran chose to sit in _John’s_ chair, while Moriarty had sat in his. Because Sherlock has never met anyone further from being a genius. 

“Sure,” says Sherlock, and Moran stands. Sherlock takes an involuntary step back. 

Holy Christ, Moran is _huge._ Sherlock hadn’t gotten the full impression when he’d been sitting in the chair, but Moran is at least half a foot taller than Sherlock. He’s clad entirely in black, in a well-padded vest, and Sherlock estimates that there are at least five knives hidden on him, and likely a gun. 

Moran chuckles, having seen him step back, and Sherlock quickly jumps into character. He looks Moran up and down very suggestively (no gay man would be able to ignore such a physique, right?), and says, “A sandwich place? That sounds good. Because I am _very_ hungry.” Sherlock bites his bottom lip and lets his eyes flicker to Moran again. 

* * * * 

Sebastian doesn’t know whether or not to be insulted. Doesn’t this cocky git remember that Sebastian intimately knew another genius, who also had a penchant for playing gay? Holmes wouldn’t dare use the same tricks if Sebastian were Moriarty – he’d get far more creative. 

He decides that he’s insulted. He’s so insulted, in fact, that he thinks he might return to his original plan and rip the detective’s throat out, right here and now. 

_Madder, Madder, think of Madder,_ he reminds himself, and he calms down. 

“Oh, look at you.” He laughs amiably. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you? Come on.” 

The sniper grabs the detective’s hand and leads him out the door. 

* * * * 

Moran orders four sandwiches. Sherlock orders one. 

_Four_ sandwiches. He’s like a troll. A very stupid, hungry monster. 

“So,” Moran says, mouth full, giving Sherlock a very charming view of the half-chewed contents in his mouth, “you’re probably wondering what brought me into the detective’s flat.” 

Sherlock laughs. “I thought it’d be rude to ask.” 

“Oh, no,” says Moran. “I’ll tell you. You see, the truth is, I wanted to talk to Ms. Madder.” 

“Really? Why’s that?” 

Moran takes a moment as he shoves half of an entire meat sandwich into his mouth. Then he says, “I need to tell her that I’m not going to hurt her.” 

_Kidnapping her brother has hurt her a lot, as it turns out,_ Sherlock thinks. He says, noncommittally, “That’s nice of you.” 

“Do you know where she is?” Moran’s tone is too nonchalant to signify anything other than absolute interest. 

“I don’t,” Sherlock says, “but she’ll be meeting me here in London, soon enough.” 

Sherlock looks at Moran the same way he did in the flat, like he’s Sigerson Bøler appreciating some masculine aesthetics. He says, softly, “If you stay with me, you can see her too.” 

* * * * 

The detective is looking at Sebastian far too intensely. Sebastian, who is possibly the most heterosexual man in the world, feels not even slightly aroused by this. It is, however, very amusing to watch the detective play gay, so he sees no reason to tell him to stop. 

“That sounds great,” he says cheerily. “Where are you meeting her?” 

The detective is probably staying in the doctor’s new flat in London, or maybe in his D.I. friend’s house, but obviously the detective can’t tell Sebastian that. Sigerson Bøler wouldn’t know any of Holmes’s friends. So Sebastian says for Holmes’s benefit, “Would you like to stay at my flat? Ms. Madder knows where it is.” 

“Wow,” says the detective, laughing flamboyantly, “that sounds great! I’ll save so much money on hotels. Thanks.” 

When the detective finishes speaking, he unconsciously rubs his jaw, like all the saccharine cheeriness is rotting his mouth. Sebastian pretends not to notice. 

“It’s nothing,” Sebastian says. _This way I get to keep you nice and close._

* * * * 

The sniper suspects nothing. It’s almost disappointing, how easy this is turning out to be. What sort of villain invites his foe to his lair? At this rate, finding out Luke Madder's whereabouts should be no trouble. 

“This is amazing. I mean, like, you and I are practically friends already,” Sherlock says, the peppiness bringing him great physical pain. “Can I call you Bashy?” 

Moran smiles. “Of course you can, Siger!” 

Both men laugh. 

* * * * 

Sebastian has shot three people before for daring to call him ‘Bashy.’ One of whom was his mother. 

He vows to give the detective a nice, painful death at the end of all of this. For now he simply says, "Mr. Siger, I’m so glad I’ve met you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I'd particularly appreciate feedback on this chapter, as I'm not sure whether it feels 'weak' or not.


	19. The Woes of Sebastian Moran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which cigarettes are smoked.

Sebastian fumbles for a cigarette as he gets driven home. 

“Sir, this is a nonsmoking cab,” his taxi driver says, glancing at Sebastian through his rearview mirror. 

“Ah, go fuck yourself,” Sebastian says, lighting up. “You might enjoy it…” 

Sebastian has to focus to get the cigarette between his lips, his fingers are shaking so bad. After he exhales a steady stream of smoke, prompting the cabbie to open the front windows, he calms down a bit. He begins to regret inviting the detective to his flat. Maybe, if Sebastian is lucky, the detective won’t come back. Holmes left the café to go ‘retrieve his luggage,’ he’d said. Sebastian wonders if he shouldn’t have just coaxed Holmes back up to 221B and shot him. 

Because the detective sleeping over at his flat seems like too much. It crosses a boundary. Sebastian has kept his flat happily genius-free, for the most part, during his entire decade of working for Jim. The last time a genius came into his house, the genius had been dead, and Sebastian had only brought him in so that Sebastian could shove him into a closet, until he thought of some better way to dispose of him. That hardly counts, right? 

He remembers the day Jim shot himself. It’d been the best day of Sebastian’s life. 

After the detective had thrown himself off the bloody roof, Sebastian had come up. His boots had made crunching noises as he stepped on the grit of the hospital rooftop, and he’d looked all around. There’d been the sounds of cars below him, a jackhammer drilling blocks away, pedestrians laughing. He recalls those noises now, but at the time the sounds had died before reaching Sebastian’s ears. He’d heard only a ringing, like a bomb had gone off, his whole world detonated. He’d walked across a recent battlefield, in order to count the causalities. 

“Boss?” he’d called out. 

Jim hadn’t answered. Sebastian had been frightened of that unresponsiveness. It'd seemed so sweet, like a possibility dangling before him, but he feared that if he reached for it, if he took the next step forward, his boss would come to life and the possibility would be snatched away. A horrible queasiness had swollen up in his gut, and all that had driven his boots forward was a hope, a fluttering, weak hope, a desperation… 

“Boss,” Sebastian had repeated. He’d spotted his boss then. 

There was Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind, on the ground in a puddle of blood. A gun had rested in his loosened grasp. 

Even as Sebastian walked closer, his knees began to shake, a lump forming in his throat. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that Jim was truly gone. It was too good to be true. Jim would leap up at any moment – “Of course I’m not dead, you fucking retard.” – and shove Sebastian to the ground, kicking him in the ribs like a misbehaving dog. Sebastian would sob with pain and anguish and cling to the moment, the astounding moment, when he’d thought Jim was out of his life. 

But Jim hadn’t moved. 

“Boss,” Sebastian had said again. “Boss, are you alive? Was it a blank, boss? Or is that blood real?” 

Sebastian brought himself to his knees. He looked at Jim’s ugly lizard face, trying to detect the slightest tremor of the eyelid, the most minor sign that would indicate life. When he found none, his hope grew. He dipped his finger into the pool of red and brought a drop to his lips. 

Salty. Definitely blood. 

“Christ, Boss,” Sebastian had said. “You’re dead. You’re bloody dead.” 

He’d gaped at Jim, expecting the corpse to roll his eyes and say, “No shit, Moran.” It hadn’t, though, because corpses can’t mock. Sebastian had laughed. 

“Holy hell,” he’d said, full of disbelief. “Holy hell. You’re dead. You’re dead, boss. You’re dead!” 

Tears had formed in his eyes, and he’d sobbed with a wondrous relief. All at once, the stress of a decade had flooded out of him, making him feel impossibly light, nearly weightless. He’d laughed and cried and scooped Jim’s body in his arms. It’d hung limp, and what a little, mortal body it’d been! 

“Oh, thank you,” he’d told Jim’s body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” 

“Thanks,” he says now. The cabbie’s pulled up in front of his flat. He hands the cabbie a ten, which the cabbie shouts isn’t enough, and gets out of the car. He enters his home. 

* * * * 

“Thanks,” Sherlock says. He’s in Molly’s flat, drinking yet another one of her freshly-brewed mugs of tea. She smiles at him, tentatively, and says, “How long will you be gone?” 

He hasn’t begun to pack yet, so he has no idea how Molly knows he’s leaving. She’s so unexpectedly perceptive at times that it can be unnerving. He says, “I’m not sure. As long as it takes.” 

“You’ll come back?” she asks. 

“I’ll try.” He sips his tea. 

She keeps looking at him, pursing her lips, full of fear and anxiety, and Sherlock wonders why she doesn’t beg for him not to go. It seems like the type of thing Molly would do, if she’s so concerned. Her silence is a mystery, but not one Sherlock has time to investigate. 

“I need to make a phone call,” he says pointedly. She stares, uncomprehending, until he gestures to the doorway. 

“Oh! Of course. I’ll leave you alone now.” She laughs. Then she stops her fake laugh, and turns grave. 

Very abruptly, she pulls Sherlock into a hug. He stands stiffly, unmoving, with his arms at his sides. She releases him and looks awkwardly away. 

“Stay safe,” she mumbles, and she leaves the room, sparing Sherlock the need to respond. 

Sherlock takes out his mobile and dials Anabelle’s number. She answers after five rings. 

“Moshi moshi! Dokuta Maderu desu!” she says. Sherlock is stunned into silence for a moment, but then says, “It’s me.” 

“Oh, hello.” Her Japanese turns to English. “How are you?” 

“I just met Moran. I’m going to his flat as soon as I’m done speaking with you,” Sherlock says, having no time for courtesies. 

“I see. He likes Sigerson, then?” 

“Oh, yes, very much,” Sherlock says, proud as he recalls his impeccable acting. “He thinks I’m quite the catch.” 

“Are you certain?” Anabelle asks. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Just watch out for Mr. Moran. He’s cleverer, sometimes, than he seems. If he finds out that you’re…you, the situation could turn perilous,” she warns. 

“That’s what I called you about, actually,” Sherlock says. He explains his plan to extract Luke Madder’s current location from Moran, and then kill the sniper. He finishes, “I need to know how you know Moran, Anabelle. Has he ever met Luke Madder? What’s your history with him? He seems very eager to talk to you, and I need to know why.” 

“He’s eager?” Anabelle sounds surprised. “Tell him I’m out of the country.” 

“I promised you’d meet him.” 

There’s nothing but silence on the other end. Cautiously, Sherlock makes sure she’s still there. “…Anabelle?” 

“Yes?” It’s a peep. 

“What is your history with Moran?” 

“It’s a long one.” 

“Then hurry up.” 

“I don’t know where to start.” 

“Start at the beginning,” Sherlock says, thinking of the Professor. 

“What if I don’t want to?” she asks, her voice small. 

“I need you to,” Sherlock insists. “I need to know _everything._ What if he wants to hurt you? Have you given him any motivation to kill you? How willing would he be to hurt Luke Madder – ” 

“He’d never hurt me,” Anabelle cuts in. “And as for Luke… Well, Moran has no connection to Luke, but every reason to hurt him.” 

“Why is that?” Sherlock asks. 

“Because Moran hates geniuses,” Anabelle explains. “Remember that. Always. Anyone cleverer than him is worthy of his loathing.” 

“So he has no idea, then, that you’re smart?” Sherlock realizes with a jolt that she’s the only person, besides himself, that he wouldn’t hesitate to call intelligent. There’s Mycroft, of course, but Sherlock would hardly praise _him_ aloud. 

“None at all,” Anabelle confirms. 

Sherlock thinks for a fast second, then says, “You’re sure? It doesn’t seem likely that someone who was Moriarty’s _right hand man_ has no idea you were clever. Moriarty, after all, was well aware…” 

“He was,” Anabelle agrees. “He was also aware of Mr. Moran’s contempt for geniuses, and he wanted to protect me.” 

“Protect you? Why?” The thought of Moriarty doing something to increase the likelihood of anyone’s survival is difficult to fathom. 

“Because he needed me. To give him the Sasaki Code.” 

Sherlock freezes. Then he says, “But you never did. …Right?” 

The silence on the other end is all he needs to hear. 

“Anabelle?” he says, hoping she hasn’t hung up. “Anabelle? Explain this to me. Right now.” 

There’s a sigh on the other end. “It might make sense. If I tell you the whole thing.” 

* * * * 

Even now, even after all these years, Sebastian still calls out, “Jim?” each time he enters his dark flat. He can’t turn on the lights until he does, he’s so afraid of finding Jim Moriarty there in his grimy kitchen, grinning with his hands in his pockets. 

The one time Jim came into Sebastian’s flat, that’s how it’d been. Sebastian had just gotten back from a job in Moscow. He’d turned on the lights, setting down his bags, only to find an ugly little man leaning against his damn fridge. 

“Who the hell are you?” he’d demanded. He wasn’t even slightly afraid, back then. It's strange to remember that there’d once been a time when the Irish criminal hadn’t registered as anything more than a man. 

“I’m Jim. Jim Moriarty. Hi.” The man wiggled his fingers at Sebastian. Even in his impeccable suit, he looked like a right creep. 

Sebastian remembered the name; Moriarty had hired him for the job he’d completed before the Moscow one. It’d been like any business deal: he’d heard the man’s voice on the phone, signed a contract, killed someone, and received a paycheck. Entirely normal. Except that Sebastian’s clients didn’t typically show up in his flat a week later. 

“Any reason why you’re in my flat, Jim?” Sebastian had asked. 

“There is, there is,” Jim had hummed, eyes too bright, and Sebastian had thought, _Fuck me if this guy isn’t mad._ “You see, Bashy – can I call you that? Thanks. – there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m very, very sorry about that, but luckily for you I’ve come to fix it.” 

Sebastian’s anger flared at the name ‘Bashy,’ but he’d managed to say, “Misunderstanding? About what?” 

Very abruptly, Jim’s face turned serious. “You just completed a job in Moscow.” 

“I did…” Sebastian said, not sure where this was leading. 

Jim _tsked,_ feigning a look of theatrical disappointment, and he wagged his finger. Yeah. He _wagged _his finger at _Sebastian Moran_ , the best sniper in Europe, and said, “Naughty, naughty, Bashy. That will never do.” __

“What the hell are you talking about? Get the hell out of my flat!” Sebastian had been pissed. 

“You can’t take jobs from other clients anymore, Sebastian. I apologize – I thought I had made that clear. I’m your boss now, Bashy-boy.” 

“That wasn’t in my god damn contract, you arse,” Sebastian said. 

Jim had rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Contracts? _Dulllll._ No, Bashy, it was _implied._ Because I _like_ you so much. See?” Jim smiled eerily and held out his arms. “Come hug your boss, Bashy. Come on.” 

“What the fucking hell?” 

And it was around that time that Sebastian grabbed Jim by his neck and threw him into the kitchen counter. He beat the shit out of Jim Moriarty that night, mostly for the fun of it. Although, now that he thinks of it, Sebastian hadn't derived any pleasure from the experience. Because even as Sebastian punched Jim’s eyes, so that they’d be puffy, purple slits come morning, Jim had laughed and laughed, as if he enjoyed it as much as his new sniper. And even though Sebastian hadn’t known it, Sebastian _was_ his sniper – only Jim’s – the moment Jim learned of his existence. There’d never been a choice for him, as Sebastian discovered the next morning. That was when Jim decided to show Sebastian what happens to those who leave Jim bruised. 

Sebastian now shudders and pushes the memory of that next morning away. He doesn’t think of _those_ types of memories, not ever. Jim’s wrath is best forgotten. 

Now shaking, Sebastian turns on his kitchen light and finds the room empty. He fumbles in his pocket again, for another cigarette. 


	20. Flashback: A Month in London, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anabelle Madder's first time in London.

“Explain everything,” Sherlock says, his upper lip twitching in irritation. 

Anabelle says, “The Professor mentioned the summer camp to you, didn’t he? So you already know about that.” 

“I do,” says Sherlock. 

“And did he tell you about Mr. Moriarty’s…interaction with my brother?” she asks. 

“He tried to drown Luke Madder. I’m aware,” says Sherlock impatiently. “But that wasn’t your last encounter, clearly.” 

“No. I saw him again four years later. I was sixteen, and in London for all of July. I was taking a calculus course for young mathematicians. Or, rather, I was supposed to. On my third day in the city, I ran into a certain infamous psychopath…” 

* * * * 

Anabelle’s hair was sopping wet, clinging to her skin, and her clothes dripped all over the glass floor of the elevator. The rain fell so thickly that it was like a watery, white curtain concealed London. Anabelle shivered. 

“Rain in London? How predictable,” a voice bemoaned. “Hold the door, would you?” 

Anabelle stopped the elevator doors from closing as a man came in after her. Two great German shepherds, unleashed, tailed him on either side. The man himself rubbed his temples with both his hands, concealing his eyes. 

“Floor fifteen,” he murmured, as Anabelle moved over, making room for the dogs. She pressed the ‘15’ button for him as he continued his lament. “It’s like this city is _trying_ to fulfill clichés. Dull, dull, _dull.”_

Anabelle had just raced back from what had been a long, solitary, and engrossing walk. She’d been developing, mentally, a new way for non-native Japanese speakers to learn the entirety of the Joyo kanji. It had to do with separating kanji into a collection of – 

Useless, useless. She wasn’t thinking about kanji anymore, not really. She was watching the man as he leaned against the wall, still trying to massage the tension out of his forehead, as if the dullness of the rain pained him. The dogs sat down on either side of him, in perfect unison. There was something undeniably aesthetic about a dark-haired, suited man bookended by two beautiful canines, but this wasn’t why Anabelle stared. The way the man had spoken was distantly familiar; she recognized his Irish accent… 

“Oh my, you’re shivering. I hope you have a coat waiting for you upstairs.” The man – no, he was a teenager – lowered his hands and gave her a crooked smile, head leaning against the elevator wall. 

His eyes did it. They were coal black, large and round, and dark bags rested below them. It’d been four years, but there was no mistaking those eyes. 

“You,” she blurted. “I remember you.” 

“As I remember you,” he said. Despite sounding entirely unsurprised, he added, “What a coincidence that we should meet here. Neither of us native-Londoners, and yet both staying in the same hotel. Fascinating, fascinating.” 

Just then, the elevator doors opened. 

_“Floor fifteen,”_ an automated woman’s voice announced. 

“It’s your floor,” Anabelle said, aware that she was staring at Jimmy. Her eyes were widened with a mixture of astonishment and fear. 

“Mmm, so it is,” he purred. “Come, dogs.” 

He snapped his finger and the pair of German shepherds followed after him. He turned back, briefly, as the elevator doors began to shut. 

“Ciao, Anabelle Madder,” he said, winking at her. The doors closed and the elevator ascended. 

Although somewhere in the back of her head she was wondering why Jimmy wasn’t in jail for _trying to murder her brother,_ the thoughts on the surface of her mind were less significant. 

Jimmy had changed. A lot. She would never have recognized him if it hadn’t been for his eyes. His entire physique, it seemed, had transformed from scraggly and boney to broad, with a moderate amount of muscle. Or perhaps that was just the illusion of a well-tailored suit. In fact, maybe it wasn’t his looks that had changed so much as…something else. Something Anabelle couldn’t put her finger on. 

When the elevator reached floor twenty-nine, Anabelle got off. She pushed Jimmy Moriarty out of her mind, deciding that she’d try not to run into him again during her stay. 

* * * * 

The next night, she came back to her hotel room after nine, as she had spent the day perusing a public library, filling her head with _Principia Mathematica._ As she entered her room, she set her bag on her bed and groped blindly in the dark for her lamp. The room glowed, and she began to unbutton her shirt. 

“I don’t recall you being so immodest.” 

Anabelle gasped and spun around, holding her shirt closed. Jimmy Moriarty stood before her. 

Anabelle's mind immediately went into 'defense mode.' Her eyes flickered to the door, and she wondered what her chances of running to it were before he managed to catch her. And if he did catch her, what were her chances of escaping anyway? He was shorter than her; was that indicative of a lack of strength? Should she attack him now, instead of trying to run at all? 

He followed her eyes and made a clucking noise with his tongue. 

“Anabelle,” he said softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. No, no…” 

Jimmy spoke differently now. He had the same accent, but his voice was dangerously soft. His cadence was sporadic, nonsensical; he purred at the end of sentences, emphasized syllables that had no significance, wound words around in his mouth in a manner inappropriate for daily conversation. 

He stepped closer to her as she hastily buttoned her shirt back up. Their eyes met, and he reached up to her, cupping her chin in his hand. His skin was cold, making her shiver. His unwavering stare was just as she remembered, although the strange, reptilian tilt of his head was new. 

“Stop that,” she snapped. “You don’t live in London – how did you get here? Actually, how did you get in _here?”_ She gestured to the hotel room. 

“I want to take you out to dinner,” he said. “I hope you haven’t eaten already.” 

With his other hand, he pressed his palm flat against her stomach. She jumped back, the bedside table jutting into her, and he said, “I can tell you haven’t. Good. And you’re right: I don’t live in London. I live in Paris, now. But I don’t see why geography or hotel security should stop me from seeing you. Aren’t we old buddies, you and I?” 

Anabelle didn’t want to say anything to enrage him, not knowing if he had grown out of his temper, so she was gentle when she said, “I don’t think we are, actually. Last time I checked, you didn’t especially care for the Madders.” 

“What a shame that you think that, Anabelle,” he cooed. “I will admit that last time we met, I was a bit, shall we say, confused. But you were always so kind… Surely you can forgive a man for a child’s mistakes?” 

“You’re not a man,” Anabelle blurted. Then, realizing she was being distracted, she added, “Get out of my hotel room!” 

His lips drew up into a smile. “Aren’t I?” He seemed to be ignoring anything he didn’t want to hear. 

“You’re sixteen,” Anabelle said. 

“Am I?” Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. Age is boring. Sixteen is boring.” 

Anabelle raised her eyebrows. “What are you talking about?” 

“Dinner,” he said. “We’re talking about dinner, and how badly we don’t want to be late for our reservation. Come along.” 

He turned on his heels and snapped his finger. When she didn’t follow, he turned back and said, “Oh, no. That wasn’t for you.” He snapped his finger again. “I’m just used to having the dogs around…” 

He walked out of her hotel room. She watched for a moment, and, without making any decision to follow – she followed. 

* * * * 

He brought her to Le Gavroche. During the car ride, he didn’t say a word; he sat in the front passenger seat of their taxi and looked out the window until they were dropped off. Oddly, the taxi driver never asked for a fee, which Anabelle prudently decided not to comment on. 

He remained silent even after they took their seats, although he watched her, intently, as she looked around the restaurant. It was clearly one of the fanciest eateries in London; they were, by far, the youngest customers there. Anabelle was glad the Professor had bought her new clothes recently, or else she might feel very out of place. Thinking this, her eyes flickered back to Jimmy. 

Anabelle wished he would stop staring at her so intensely; she felt vaguely disarmed, like she was exposing herself in some way but wasn’t sure how. It also made the silence more palpable, unbearable. She struggled to find something to say. 

“So… What brings you to London?” she tried. 

“You,” Jimmy said simply, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth. He leaned back and raised his eyebrows at her, and she realized _she_ was staring. She looked away. 

“Right. Well, I’m here because – ” 

“You were accepted at the Cambridge-funded program for prodigious mathematicians. _Boring.”_ He said this last word musically, whishing his hand like a conductor. “Do you actually _go_ to the lectures? Oh dear god.” His eyes widened. “I can’t imagine.” He picked up an olive with his index finger and thumb, pushing it between his parted lips. He let it linger there, not entirely in his mouth, and from the subtle movements of his teeth Anabelle could tell that he was licking the juices from the side of the olive that was concealed. 

“Yes, I do. I think they’re interesting.” 

“Olive?” he asked, somehow managing to say the word without crushing the one in his mouth. 

“Please,” she said, expecting him to push the plate toward her. Instead he took the olive from his mouth and offered it to her. 

“I don’t like having pits to spit out, and waste is a sin,” he said, as if this were the most pragmatic solution ever proposed. But his eyes teased her. 

She took the olive from between his fingers and put it in her mouth, wondering what the hell she was doing. She eyed the other tables around her, hoping no one had seen. 

“Don’t be self-conscious,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

When the waiter came, Jimmy ordered their appetizers without asking Anabelle what she wanted. She was glad for this, actually, as she had forgotten to look at her menu. 

Later, when their meals came, Anabelle tried to do what she normally did when she ate with acquaintances; she wanted to take bites and chew only when Jimmy’s attention was on something else, perhaps when he was drinking water, or caught up in his own conversation. She quickly realized this technique wouldn’t be possible. Jimmy watched her the entire time, his eyes never flickering away. The dim lighting cast shadows in the planes of his cheekbones, and made his eyes look even blacker than usual. He chewed and stared intensely from across the table, and it would have been comical if it weren’t for the way that it made her feel utterly naked. 

Eventually, because she really was hungry, she stopped giving a damn and ate with gusto, in full view of the staring boy. He smiled with the first full bite she took, and then, for some reason, chose that moment to order her a glass of Pessac Leognan. 

“I love the taste of Pessac Leognan,” he said to her, after the waiter had delivered what was ordered. 

“Why didn’t you order a glass for yourself?” she asked. 

His eyes sparkled, although she wasn’t sure why. “I don’t need to,” he said simply. 

After she had relaxed (the wine certainly helped with that), she found it easy to speak to Jimmy. He was familiar to her, like an old memory that had been improved, a photograph flatteringly retouched. He treated the waiter with indifference, as if the poor man were nothing more than a machine created to take Jimmy’s orders, but Anabelle he graced with his attentions. 

“Try this, you’ll like it,” he said, taking a forkful of his meal (tartar spread with fig jam) and holding it out for her, to bite off of his fork. Jimmy made eating feel inappropriate, maybe even scandalous, maybe even erotic, but he never acknowledged this. He wasn’t concerned with outside perceptions of him, or social norms, and it helped her ease into conversation with him. 

“Where do you go to school now?” she asked, knowing full well that he had been forced to go to public school. 

But he surprised her by saying, “Not in school anymore.” 

“You dropped out?” 

“Graduated,” he said, grinning. “From uni.” 

“Oh? And how did you manage that in…four years?” she asked. 

“Faked all the papers. Phony diploma, but it doesn’t matter; no one ever doubts it,” he said. “And besides. I already have all of the knowledge. Professors,” he snorted, “can’t teach _me_ anything.” 

Anabelle did not doubt this. His fake diploma should have bothered her, but it didn’t. It seemed logical when he explained it away so easily. 

When she took the last sip of her wine, he picked up the glass and dipped his finger into it. He slid his fingertip around the rim, collecting a full droplet of purple wine. 

“You missed some,” he said, and offered her his finger. 

Blushing furiously, Anabelle leaned forward and sucked the wine from his fingertip. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. 

“Really, Anabelle Madder, you are too much,” he said, his eyes only slits when they opened again. “I need fresh air. Waiter,” he called, and the waiter came rushing over from across the restaurant. “The check. Now.” 

Once their check was delivered, Anabelle reached for her wallet. By the time she looked up, with the proper bills in hand (she had had to sort through her American money to find her few pounds), Jimmy was already tucking his own money beneath the receipt. There was something in his face that silenced all her protests before she could open her mouth. 

“Thank you,” she said instead. Then, “I don’t recall you having money.” 

He paused for a moment, as if considering whether or not to be offended, but in the end he smiled. “I like that about you, Anabelle.” 

His voice became so silky every time he said her name that she blushed. She knew he noticed, which only made her blush further. 

“Like what about me?” 

“That you know me. Know the real me. Not many people do. It’s refreshing, you see. I need someone like you around.” He took one last sip of his water and, before she could form a response, stood. “Let’s get going, shall we?” 

He pressed his hand delicately against the small of her back as they walked outside, onto the street. The gesture, from him, became more intimate than it should have been; she hoped he couldn’t feel how hot her skin was beneath her shirt. 

* * * * 

She wanted more than anything to kiss him. As they walked she stumbled a bit, not from tipsiness (she wasn’t the least bit tipsy), but because her limbs felt like jelly around him. He began to tell her about a business he had started, and although she tried to listen (and felt sincerely happy for his unexpected success), she could think of nothing but kissing him. Was it too soon to try to kiss a boy you hadn’t seen in four years? What would he think of her? What if he had a girlfriend? Was he still violent, still the same volatile boy she had once known? No, that was unthinkable… So how could she kiss him? And how, precisely, _did_ one kiss someone else? She had never done it before, had never considered the mechanics. But, of course, if so many people managed to do it with varying levels of success each day, then it could not be so hard. 

“Are you listening, dear?” 

_Dear, dear, dear, he called me_ dear. _What does that mean? Can I kiss him now?_

“Yes, of course,” she said breathlessly. He quirked up an eyebrow, as if he knew her exact thoughts. 

“I said I would like to take you to the park nearby. It’s beautiful at night, with the lights illuminating the fountain in a most dazzling…” His voice growled, drifted off, as if by the middle of the sentence he became too lackadaisical to finish the thought. 

* * * * 

The park _was_ beautiful. It was small and quaint, scarcely occupied. All of the thin trees that lined the park path had been strung with lights. Anabelle and Jimmy chose to sit on a bench in front of the park’s largest fountain. The lights were reflected in the water, making it look like a thousand tiny diamonds came cascading into the pools below. 

“How is Professor Madder?” Jimmy asked. Anabelle was looking into the water, appreciative of the design, and she did not realize that he was watching only her. 

“He’s doing well. He’s completing some research on a new medication for schizophrenics… I haven’t been paying much attention to the project, but – Oh!” 

He had placed his hand on her shoulder, that was all, but she was so sensitive to his touch that she had exclaimed. She looked at him, willing herself not to be embarrassed, hoping he hadn’t noticed… 

He wrapped his arm around her and, very gently, pushed the top of her head onto his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking up at him. It was suddenly like he was taller. “I’m acting very silly.” 

“People always act like this around me, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he cooed. 

She frowned. “Do you do this with a lot of girls?” 

Of course he did; stupid of her to even wonder. 

As if knowing that denying it would be futile, he said instead, “Do you know that you’re special to me? A rose amongst weeds. My bijou.” He pressed his lips against the crown of her head, moving his fingers through her hair. 

And suddenly she realized: Her worries were for nothing. Considering whether it was right or wrong to kiss him was foolish, the thought of some mundane, moralistic child. Of course he wouldn’t judge her for it – this was the guy that expected people to eat his sucked-on olives. He was a freak. 

It was liberating. 

“Kiss me,” she said, blinking up at him. 

He leaned down, achingly slowly, and she wondered whether it would be too forceful to grab his face and crush it into hers. He wove his fingers delicately through strands of her hand. His lips were soft, adept, well-practiced. He moved leisurely, his experience making him more in control than her, and she let him teach her. He did not spend much time on her mouth, however, and soon began spreading kisses up the bridge of her nose, across her cheek, running his lips down her jaw, nuzzling her neck… 

“Pessac Leognan,” he breathed, and she suddenly realized why he hadn’t needed to order the wine. 

“Jimmy…” 

“I’m called James now,” he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing against her earlobe. 

He sat up, probably so that he could get the satisfaction of watching her tremble. 

“James.” She tested it out. “James Moriarty.” 

It fit. Jimmy had been a confused, lost little boy, but James Moriarty was a man who knew himself. 

“Anabelle Moriarty,” he said. She looked at him, eyes widening in surprise. He shrugged. “Just trying it out.” 

She probably should have been alarmed, but wasn’t. 

“Anabelle Moriarty,” she agreed. “It sounds nice.” Then, “James Madder.” 

He chuckled softly. “Oh no, my dear. _That_ will never do.” 

“Kiss me again,” she said, not much caring about anything else. 

He grinned a salacious grin, and did what she wanted. This time she was less hesitant, not afraid to use her own tongue, even her teeth. She nipped at his bottom lip, making him release a small, involuntary moan, making his fingers flutter over her skin… 

Abruptly, he sat up. His pupils were huge. “Really, darling, if you want _that_ then we ought to return to your hotel room.” 

At first she wasn’t sure what ‘that’ meant, but then she realized: ‘That’ was anything she wanted. Anything at all. Kissing, if she desired no more. Everything else if she did. 

“Can we catch a taxi from here?” she said. She knew they could – obviously – but didn’t know a more delicate way of saying, “Yes, I’d like to jump your bones right now, please and thank you.” 

“I’m not prepared. We’ll need to go to a drugstore first.” 

She was unable to meet his matter-of-fact gaze. “Alright,” she said. 

“Is this your first time?” he asked. She nodded at the ground. 

His face lit up, eyes flashing brilliantly. He seemed positively thrilled. “Oh _dear._ Won’t this be fun?” 

He took her hand and led her out of the park. 

* * * * 

As is turned out, she ended up changing her mind about the Cambridge conferences. They _were_ boring. When she woke up the next morning, James had already risen and was staring at her from the other side of the bed, as he likely had been for hours. She didn’t notice that he had unplugged her alarm clock in the middle of the night, and the thought of her going to her conference didn’t dawn on either one of them. 

“Did you like it?” he whispered eagerly. He looked vulnerable and boyish, with the sheets wrapped around his legs, bare from the waist up. He did not seem like the person who had popped olives into his mouth the night before. 

“Very much so,” she said brightly, and they both split into smiles. They stared at each other for a moment and laughed. Then, before she registered what he was doing, he was on top of her, on all fours, and he bent down to kiss her face. 

“You are perfect,” he said, and kissed her once more. He seemed to lose all self-control. Not over his lust – he wasn’t feeling lustful in that moment – but over something else, something ecstatic and gushing. “You are perfect, you are perfect, you are perfect.” He dissolved into those words and the kisses he planted all over her face, taking five minutes before he collapsed by her side again, panting. 

“You’re the cat’s meow, Anabelle Madder,” he said. “You are absolutely divine.” 

Anabelle could not speak, she was giggling so much. She could not remember ever being so happy in her life, and to think that this oddball could be the one making her so joyous… 

“I love this,” she said. 

“Tell me you love me,” he hummed, propping his head up on his elbow and looking down at her. She opened her mouth, but he predicted what she was about to say and said, “Oh! None of that!” while pressing his finger against her lips. “I know you don’t love me, dear, I realize that. Say it anyway. Lie to me. I love lies. I’ve been experimenting with them. Perhaps I’ll tell you about my experiments, sometime… Tell me you love me.” 

“I love you,” she said. He grinned, ear to ear, looking manic and not quite sane. She should have been alarmed but wasn’t. 

“Say it again,” he whispered. “Say my name, tell me you love me.” 

“James, I love you,” she said. 

“My full name.” 

She giggled. “Why? I don’t – ” 

The finger on the lips again. He sort of arched his eyebrows, feigning disappointment in her, and took the finger away. 

“James Moriarty,” she said, “I love you. Very much. Touch me.” 

When he touched her, he did it delicately. He had been impossibly tender and gentle and slow the night before, treating her like something fragile. And, around him, she felt fragile. 

“Let’s go to a market today,” he said, when he grew bored of touching her. She was disappointed – she hadn’t considered any itinerary except for the one where her and James stayed in bed all day, but she said, “Alright. Let’s.” 

He jumped up, scrambling out of bed as a sudden energy overtook him. “I’m ordering room service, I’m starving – I want to dress you – how do you like your eggs? – where are your clothes?” 

“James, haven’t you done this before?” Anabelle asked. He paused his dashing around the room and looked at her. 

“Done what, love?” 

“Sex.” 

“Yes, of course I have.” Thinking he had answered her question, he went to the phone and began to dial. 

“Does it always make you this…jumpy? Happy?” 

“No, it’s doesn’t. I already told you, Anabelle,” he said, in that pedantic, Irish voice of his, “you’re special.” He turned back into the phone. “Yes, I’m ordering breakfast for room 29A…” 


	21. Flashback: A Month in London, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[Moriarty would] be a good laugh at a party." -Andrew Scott on his character

It did not take long for Anabelle to see that James was mad. She wasn’t sure, exactly, when she began to suspect it, but soon enough it was simply a fact she accepted. _James has brown hair. James is fluent in Arabic. James has mastered every branch of pure mathematics. James is mad._ Just so. 

Perhaps she initially saw it during their first afternoon together, when James, after eating breakfast, descended into a nihilistic mood so deep that he became hopelessly lethargic. He made them meander around the city all day, doing nothing, because whenever they got close to any site of activity he would abruptly wish to leave. 

“There’s no point to it,” he’d say, grabbing her hand and pulling her away. “No point to it at all.” 

Or maybe she became suspicious soon after that. She and James returned to the hotel lobby to find the students from the Cambridge program coming back from their lecture that day, and it was only then that Anabelle remembered why she’d come to London at all. 

“Oh, no,” she said, seeing other students entering the elevators. “I completely forgot my lectures!” 

“Oh welllll,” James sang. 

“No, James – I – oh _god._ I’m going to be in _so_ much trouble. This woman – she’s the chaperone for the Cambridge program – she’s going to come to my room and ask why I didn’t show up today. You’ll have to hide in the shower. I’ll say I was sick. God, I hate lying. This is awful. Hide me, James, cover my face so she doesn’t see me.” They slipped into an empty elevator, Anabelle looking at the ground. 

“You’re actually worried,” James observed. 

“Of course I am! The Professor paid so much for me to be here, and – ” 

“ – and you got to see me. We’ll be together for the rest of the month, at least. Wasn’t that worth the price?” 

“It was, but the chaperone – ” 

“I’ll take care of it,” James said, as the elevator ascended. Anabelle stared at him. 

“How?” 

“Don’t worry, love. Go back to the hotel room. I’ll sort everything out.” 

Was it then, after that incident, that she thought he was a lunatic? Anabelle hadn’t a clue what he did that night, but the chaperone never bothered her. Anabelle received progress reports with high marks for activities she’d never participated in, and once, when the chaperone passed her in the hotel halls, the poor woman had ducked her head and passed Anabelle so quickly that she hadn’t had time to say hi. That, indeed, stirred suspicion. 

Or maybe she’d noticed James’s madness when they had sex. She would say his name while at the zenith of her ecstasy, her pleasure and his existence the only things on her mind, and with every _James!_ she moaned he would moan back _Me!_ “Me – me – me,” he’d gasp, making it clear that his pleasure and his existence were the only things on his mind. 

In fact, perhaps his madness shone through most clearly during their most intimate moments. In bed, she would moan out all sorts of words, all of which had very little meaning except, _“This is good. I really like having sex with you.”_ But James would listen intently to her, taking everything she said very seriously, never losing himself as she did. 

“Pleeeease,” she would cry. 

“Please what?” he would inquire as he thrust, a maniacal grin on his face. “For what are you begging, my dear?” 

But she’d be too far gone in pleasure to hear, let alone respond, and he’d laugh at that. 

After, when they were both spent, he would lay beside her, propped up on his elbow. And he’d talk. Ceaselessly. 

“That was wonderful, wasn’t it? You loved it. You _loved_ it. I could tell. You want this more than anything, don’t you? How could you ever want someone besides me? I’m all you need. _All_ you need. You don’t need anyone else – should never want anyone else. Only me, me, me. Me, me – ” 

“Please shut up,” she’d say despairingly. 

There was madness at breakfast. He’d once tried to stab the maid who brought their morning meal with a fork, because a sliver of shell had been left in his eggs. Or perhaps the insanity showed best when Anabelle discovered that James thought it was _hilarious_ to make her hotel room as messy as possible, so that the maids would have extra work. He loved making a lot of pointless work for others while never laboring himself. 

Anabelle smelled insanity in his writings. 

“What is this?” Anabelle asked one day. The notebook she held had a blue, cardboard cover, and pages thin and flimsy from much use. It had been hand-stitched, so that the pages, doubtlessly once tightly-bound, were now loose and falling out. Anabelle, from those loose pages, could glimpse the words _faggot, will see more, February 17th,_ and _bad looks at me_ written in James’s hand. These words were all found on different pages and contained, as far as Anabelle could see, no correlation. 

“Nothing,” James said quickly, snatching the notebook away. “Don’t touch my stuff.” 

This was rather rich, Anabelle thought, coming from him. James touched and used all of her things whenever he liked. She’d even caught him smelling her panties, once, but had been too disturbed to bring it up. 

Later, when James was out, Anabelle found his notebook on her bedside table. She opened it, curious, and found the type of intricate and extensive recordkeeping that only obsessive, genius children are known for. 

For the last four years, it seemed, James had been keeping a record on every insult he’d ever received from any individual. Some of the insults were actually noteworthy – such as when some woman threatened to murder James’s mother. But most of the insults were so trite that they didn’t seem worth the effort of writing down. In fact, Anabelle suspected that many of the pettier entries ("stranger shot me rude look in street") were imagined slights, making them doubly concerning. 

The most disturbing part of the record was the way James apparently resolved his perceived insults. He had a vengeance for every person who so much as blinked at him the wrong way. There were revenges recorded from when he was still at school – he had loved spreading rumors and hacking into school computers, to change children’s grades to F’s. The schemes stretched far into the present, however. Anabelle was horrified to see that, very recently, James apparently “got back” at someone by cutting off the tail of their cat. If this wasn’t a form of madness according to the Professor’s copy of the DSM-IV, then the DSM-IV was wrong. 

Yes. Anabelle was well aware that she’d allowed herself to be wooed by a madman. And she knew she couldn’t help him. 

It wasn’t that madness has no cure. It’s that stubbornness, vanity, selfishness, and cruelty – these things can’t be medicated away. And if the person who houses these maladies has not an ounce of will to be freed of them, then there’s no therapy that will help. The Professor had taught Anabelle that there is no amount of love that can change a person’s core. 

Madness can be cured. But madness wasn’t James’s problem. 

* * * * 

Add hedonism to the list of James’s flaws. 

James often went to parties, and he always dragged Anabelle along. The parties were located in the wealthiest areas on the outskirts of London. Anabelle had asked James why, if he lived in Paris, he would know about parties in London, but he’d told her that he “knew of every good party in all of Europe, love.” As if confirming this, the other partygoers all seemed to know James, although James never told Anabelle how. She inquired once. He brushed it off as “from work,” but she wasn’t certain what that work was. 

The fifth party took place at a favorite white mansion of his. As was typical, he and Anabelle were let through the gates by the mansion’s demure butler, and they walked down the winding driveway, crossed the lawn, and entered the backyard. James quickly slipped off in the way he always did, without saying a word, which made Anabelle wonder, for the umpteenth time, why he insisted she come to these parties at all. Anabelle walked along the ledge of the backyard’s in-ground pool, narrowly avoiding the dance area, and made her way to the bar. The small counter had become a routine spot for her. Here, she sipped sodas, alone, and debated for four hours straight whether or not it would be horribly rude to ask the DJ to turn down the music. 

She amused herself during this time by watching James dance. Even yards away, James stood out, somehow separated from the rest of the crowd. When he danced, he possessed a smoothness and grace that didn’t befit his small stature. With his hips gyrating and head rocking impeccably to the beat, his body became a tool to be admired, desired, _craved._ He would look around the dance floor, at all of his mesmerized spectators, and bask in the awe he felt pouring out of them. Anabelle wondered if he knew that she watched just as eagerly. Regardless, he couldn’t possibly suspect the cognitive dissonance his dancing induced in her. She struggled, at the bar, with how she could want a man – a boy – who did so many heinous things, simply because he danced well. It was nothing more than pure lust that brought her to these parties. It was nothing more than pure lust that was keeping her in London. 

She watched from afar as a lean woman in a slinky red dress began to dance with James. He grazed his hands up and down her waist, and Anabelle wondered why women in their twenties would think it appropriate to be touched like that by a sixteen year-old. She pondered on the possibility that no one knew James’s actual age. 

A man came up to James and yanked the woman away possessively. Ah. His girlfriend. 

He began to shout at James. Anabelle stood, remembering James’s terrible temper, wanting to stop whatever crazy thing he may decide to do. 

But James only stared at the man. And kept dancing. He snapped his fingers, tilting his head in that reptilian way of his. The man worked himself into a terrible rage, even more angered by his inability to intimidate James. His girlfriend was looking unimpressed. The man stepped forward and gave James a shove. 

James stumbled back and fell into the pool. In that moment the party went eerily silent. The DJ switched off the music. Conversations were cut short. Dancers froze and stared. The only sounds were of Anabelle’s footsteps, as she ran towards James, and James himself, as his body impacted the water. 

Seconds later, James made his way to the surface, his soaking suit trying to drag him back down. Nobody moved. Anabelle thought that the others were waiting for James’s response, before responding themselves. Like subjects looking to their king to set an example. 

“You,” he said, all humor gone from his eyes. He glowered at the man. “What _absolute_ slime you are.” 

As if that had been an order to move, six men ran to the offender and picked him up. He yanked and writhed, but they were unyielding. They carried him back into the house as he shouted curses and, by the time he got to the door, apologies. 

“I’M SORRY. PLEASE, PLEASE, CALL THEM OFF, MR. MORIARTYYYYY. PLEEEEASE.” 

James acted as if he couldn’t hear him. A large-bellied man picked James up by the shoulders and hoisted him onto the deck. Two others rushed over to towel him off, although there wasn’t much use to this, as his suit was soaked through. The music restarted. 

“Ah, Anabelle,” James said brightly when he saw her staring. “My night has been rather spoiled, I’m afraid. I could do with some fine dining now. How about I change and we head to Le Gavroche?” 

“What will happen to him?” Anabelle asked. 

“To whom?” James purred. He raised his hand, and the men with the towels hurried off. 

“The…the jealous man,” Anabelle said. 

“I haven’t a clue. Something funny, I hope,” James said. 

“They can’t _hurt_ him,” Anabelle said. “Please, tell them not to hurt – ” 

“Darling, that man is one of the best child traffickers in England. While I have no problem heeding your suggestions – it brings me a strange pleasure to listen to you – I’m not entirely sure you _don’t_ want him to be hurt. You moral people are like that. An eye for an eye and such?” 

Anabelle frowned. “A trafficker?” 

“The best.” James winked. 

She hesitated before saying, “Let’s go dining, yes. I’m starving.” 

* * * * 

At one of the parties, held at a club, James left her to her own devices. This mainly involved standing awkwardly in the corner of the room, alone, like a wallflower. Strobe lights flashed and the floor thrummed with the sound of some techno beat that changed every two minutes on the dot. Anabelle felt dizzy, claustrophobic, mildly panicked, and couldn’t see James anywhere. She hugged a cold bottle of water close to her chest like it could protect her from the (mostly intoxicated) dancers. 

“You a friend of Alard’s?” A man considerably older than Anabelle, in a collared black shirt, approached her. He had a thick German accent and slurred his words elegantly. 

“Oh! Uh, no, sorry,” she said, not sure why she was apologizing and wishing the man wouldn’t look at her the way he was looking at her. 

“You look like a friend of Alard’s,” he decided, and, as if that settled the problem, he leaned in to her. She backed away, stuttering incoherently, trying to explain that she did not kiss strangers, so sorry, she didn’t mean to offend. 

“Hello, Hanus. I see you’ve met my fiancée.” James’s voice sounded behind Anabelle. 

The man named Hanus straightened up, his tipsy eyes widening. 

“Fiancée?” he said, looking at Anabelle very differently. All signs of lecherousness vaporized. “I see. It is very nice to meet you, ma’am. I hope you have a lovely evening. And Mr. Moriarty.” The man inclined his head, and the gesture was reminiscent of a bow. 

“Hanus,” James said, eyes hard. Hanus took this as a dismissal, and left. 

Anabelle turned and quirked up an eyebrow. “Fiancée?” 

“You sweet, innocent thing,” James tickled a finger beneath her chin, “look at you. And yes,” his voice turned serious, “you’re my fiancée, here. Consider it my protection. If you ever need to introduce yourself to someone, tell them you are Mrs. Moriarty.” 

“Alright,” she said, fully intending to never do such a thing. She opened her mouth to say something more, but James was already gone, back to dancing without her. 

* * * * 

Another party took place at the white mansion. At this party, James chose to bring his two German shepherds with him. He left the dogs to tail Anabelle while he went dancing. She wasn’t afraid of them, despite their fearsome size. They hadn’t been named, but they responded warmly to “doggy” and “woofy,” which made her think they’d make good house pets. She patted their heads at the bar counter, passing the time by mentally reviewing the last Arabic lesson James had given her. 

“Anabelle,” James called out, approaching her. She scrambled off her bar stool and stood. 

“Yes?” 

“I’m going inside for a little,” he said. “Be a dear and don’t follow after me, okay?” 

“What will you do?” she asked. 

“Be a dear…” he whispered, then said, “If anyone bothers you, sic the dogs on them.” 

Anabelle wasn’t sure why the thought of him going inside made her nervous, but it did. The sudden, unpleasant flutter in her stomach was stirred by intuition. She’d learned, a long time ago, to trust her intuition. She often solved math problems that way; a solution would come to her before she’d consciously thought the problem through. Right now, her intuition was telling her that the answer was to stop James from going into the mansion. 

“What will you do?” she asked again. 

Perhaps, if it was something mad and dangerous, he’d be too ashamed to do it if he told her about it. 

Or perhaps he’d just say, “I’ll be fine. Don’t follow me,” and leave before she could ask again. Which was what he did. 

Anabelle groaned, watching him walk away. She was afraid he’d throw a temper tantrum if she tried to stop him, so she watched as he slithered past the dance floor, nimbly avoiding running into anyone, and slipped through the glass doors of the mansion. 

She crouched on the ground, at eye level with the dogs, and tried to stay calm. She considered calling her father, but somehow she didn’t think this was the appropriate time to tell him she’d been cutting her classes to party with the boy who’d once tried to kill her brother. 

“What would the Professor do?” she asked the dogs. One of them whined and rested his head on her shoulder. 

“You think?” she said. “Yeah, me too.” 

The dogs blinked. 

One thing was certain: The Professor would never leave anyone he suspected of being half-mad alone at a wild party. But if she followed after James, he would probably be furious… 

She looked at her watch. It was 2:08 A.M. She decided that, if James didn’t come out by 2:40, she’d follow after him. 

By 2:20 she was guiding the dogs to an empty corner of the bar. 

“Stay, doggies, stay,” she commanded, as they tried to follow after her. She made her way timidly through the dance floor, getting her feet stepped on by the horde of partyers. She opened the French doors of the mansion and allowed them to close behind her. 

When the French doors closed, the music from outside dulled. Anabelle looked around, and found that she’d walked into a well-furnished den. The room was entirely unremarkable, except for the fact that nearly a dozen women and girls, most half-naked, were huddled in the corner, backs facing Anabelle. They appeared to be watching something. 

“Excuse me,” Anabelle called to one woman, a blonde in only her underwear. “What are you looking at – ?” 

When the blonde woman turned to look at Anabelle, Anabelle got a glimpse of what was before the women. She shoved the blonde woman aside, too distracted to apologize, and made her way to James. 

James was sprawled on the floor, like he had been standing moments before but had collapsed, with no one to catch him. His eyes were closed and he made no response when Anabelle touched him. His skin felt cold and clammy, wet with perspiration. 

For all the times she swore to only lust him, it was very strange that, upon seeing him incapacitated, it was suddenly as if her world stopped. And the only thing she saw was James, and the only thing that mattered was helping him. 

“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded. She rested her hands on his shoulders. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. She reached to take his pulse, but didn’t bother counting his heart beats. It was obvious that his heart was pounding dangerously fast. 

“Not sure,” a dark-haired woman answered. She had a Russian accent. “He said it’d be funny if he took some of Alard’s pills, and we all laughed, but we didn’t think he’d _do_ it. He is always doing such crazy things.” She shook her head sadly. 

Whoever Alard was, Anabelle was seriously beginning to hate him. 

“What’s in Alard’s pills?” Anabelle asked. 

All of the women shrugged. 

“No one knows,” the dark-haired woman explained. 

“Well, does he need a _hospital?”_ Anabelle asked. “Haven’t you guys done _anything?”_

“We can’t bring him to a hospital! Are you insane? He’d go to prison! We’d all go to prison!” one of the women cried. 

“Better prison than dead!” Anabelle retorted. 

“We’ve been trying to wake him up,” the dark-haired woman said. “It’s bad for him to stay unconscious… He could choke on vomit.” 

“Okay, well, how do we wake him up?” Anabelle asked, impatient. James was limp in her arms, although his heart still pounded wildly. She wiped the sweat out of his eyes with her sleeve. 

All of the women looked at one another uncomfortably. The blonde one leaned forward and asked, absurdly, “How do you _do_ that?” 

“Do what?” Anabelle asked. 

“Just…” The women all glanced at one another again. “Just…touch him, like that. Like – like he’s not _James Moriarty.”_ She whispered his name like it was too sacred to be spoken at a normal volume. 

And that was when Anabelle understood. These women looked at James with far too much reverence to _touch_ him, let alone help him. It was probably difficult, for them, to fully comprehend that James could be in medical danger, like any other mortal. And it was difficult, for Anabelle, to realize that some people saw James for anything other than what he really was – a selfish, spiteful Irish boy prone to covering his ears when he didn’t want to listen and prone to throwing tantrums when he wanted to be listened to. 

Anabelle slapped James across the face. 

All of the women gasped. 

“Don’t _hurt_ him,” the blonde woman quivered. 

“He needs to wake up,” Anabelle said. “If he doesn’t, I’m calling 999 and bringing the police here. So back up and give us some space.” 

The women looked at each other, but the dark-haired one slid back a little, and the others followed. Anabelle shot her a small, thankful smile. Then she slapped James again. 

His eyelids flickered open. 

“Anabelle…” he murmured, head lolling in her arms. “Mm…go away…” 

“He knows your _name?”_ the blonde woman whispered, and all the women regarded Anabelle with awe. 

Anabelle ignored them, and shook James by his shoulders. This roused him fully; his eyes opened and he spat, “Fuck off!” 

Anabelle didn’t move. James absorbed the image of all of the half-dressed women around him, and shouted, “Fuck off, all of you!” 

The women all jumped and scattered. Anabelle was relieved by this; they hadn’t been exactly helpful. 

“James, you have to get up,” Anabelle said. 

“Christ, leave me alone,” he moaned, unable to keep his eyes open. He pushed at her, but his fingers had all the force of fluttering butterfly wings. 

“I’m taking you out of here. You’re going to the ER,” she decided. She tried to lift him, but found that he was far too heavy. “Can you stand? Try to stand. I’ll help you.” 

“I told you…to wait…outside,” he said. 

She wrapped her arms around him from behind and tried to pull him up. He collapsed on her, too weak to try to aid or hinder her efforts. She looked around for help in desperation, but most of the women had run outside, or were on the other side of the den, not daring to come too close to James. 

“Need a hand?” 

The dark-haired woman from before came forward. Anabelle nodded, grateful, and the woman said to James, “Mr. Moriarty, this girl and I are going to help you up now. Can I… Can I touch you?” 

“Fuck off, Gromov,” he mumbled, but Anabelle quickly said, “He doesn’t mean that. He’ll thank you in the morning, when he’s still alive. Please, help me.” 

Gromov hesitated. Then, nodding, she took one side of James as Anabelle took the other. Together, they hoisted him up and began to bring him out of the den. 

Gromov knew the interior of the mansion. She brought them all out of the den and down a hall, toward the front door. The trek was a long one, slowed by James’s weak protestations. When they finally got to the welcome mat outside, he fell. Only Anabelle’s support stopped his skull from shattering on the concrete. 

Anabelle called a taxi service while Gromov went out back to get the dogs. Together, the three of them waited out front for the car to come. James threatened to lapse back into unconsciousness every several minutes, but Anabelle always shook him awake. This earned her numerous mumbled curses. 

“Who are you?” Gromov asked as they waited. Her implicit question was obvious: “What kind of teenage girl would dare slap James Moriarty across the face?” 

“I’m Anabelle,” Anabelle said. 

“She’s my fiancée.” This was from James. 

Just then, their taxi arrived. Although Gromov was able to help Anabelle get James and the dogs in the back seat of the car, she gawked at Anabelle the entire time. Anabelle thought that maybe she was looking for something extraordinary in Anabelle, something that would explain her relationship to James. She mustn't have found it, however, because she was still staring after them even as the taxi pulled away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of flashbacks, then back to the present...
> 
> Feedback much appreciated. :)


	22. Flashback: A Month in London, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Don't you ever leave'  
> That is what you said to me  
> Do you know what that can do to someone like me?"
> 
> -Ane Brun, Don't Leave

Morning came, as mornings always do. James seemed to think that this particular morning washed away the mistakes of last night. He was moderately well, after being attended to by the hotel doctor and gulping down two-and-a-half gallons of water. He nibbled on the toast Anabelle had ordered for him, and smacked the dogs when they tried to eat said toast. Anabelle, having stayed up all night to ensure his well-being, was too exhausted to tell him not to hit the dogs. 

She tried to muster enough energy to speak. Last night wasn’t something that could be forgotten. Anabelle hated herself for ignoring all of the times James may have hurt other people, but found it unbearable to not address the one time he had explicitly tried to hurt himself. 

Eventually she started with, “Why did you do that?” 

He shrugged and dropped his toast to the floor, not caring enough to aim for his plate. “I was bored.” 

“Did you know what was in those pills?” Anabelle asked. 

“Something that could have killed me,” James said. His eyes narrowed. “If you’d let them.” 

“So you tried to kill yourself,” Anabelle said, for clarification. 

“I was bored,” James repeated. A long moment passed. Anabelle tried to think of what the Professor would say. 

“I don’t think that’s true,” she finally said. 

“That I tried to kill myself?” 

“No, that’s pretty apparent,” she said. “That you tried to kill yourself because you were bored. That’s not why you want to die.” 

“How would you know?” James asked. He poked holes through his half-eaten toast, getting crumbs all over the carpet. 

“Because that’s not a reason why people kill themselves.” 

“I’m not _people.”_ He spat the word. 

“You are.” He looked up at her, aghast, as if she’d just insulted him. “I think, James, that you tried to kill yourself because you feel empty. Because your entire life is partying and dancing, and drinking, and – and you don’t have any friends – ” 

“I have you.” 

“I’m leaving on the thirty-first, and we’ve only been together for two weeks,” she said. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to remind him that she was going soon, but he needed to prepare for it. 

“You’re not actually leaving,” he said. 

She didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so she ignored it. She continued, “That’s not the point. The point is that you’re lonely. I wish you hadn’t dropped out of school –” 

“Oh, _Jesus.”_ James covered his ears. “Are you my _mother?_ Save the moral talk for someone dumb enough to care, Anabelle.” 

“I’m not talking about morals!” she said hotly. “I’m talking about how you’ve made yourself unable to _function_ because you choose to spend all of your time doing stuff that doesn’t really matter.” 

“Nothing matters.” 

“That’s not true,” Anabelle said. “Things can matter if you _decide_ they matter. If you don’t think life has any objective, inherent meaning, that’s fine. Neither do I. But if you don’t, then you need to give your life its own meaning, something that _you_ decide matters to _you – ”_

“Let’s fuck,” James interrupted. 

Anabelle frowned. “James, I’m trying to tell you to give your life a subjective purpose – ” 

“Fucking sounds like a great purpose,” he said. 

“I don’t want to,” she said. 

“You are such a bore today,” he groaned. “If I kill myself this afternoon, it’ll be your fault.” 

She flinched as if he’d smacked her. She said nothing, shocked, and they looked at each other for a long moment. 

Eventually, he let out a soft noise and shrugged. 

“Just kidding,” he said lowly. 

The hotel felt hot. Anabelle became abruptly aware of the stale, unbearable ventilation. She took a deep breath but found that it gave her no relief. There was a weight, on her chest, like the thick air was pressing hard against it. She stood. “I’m going for a walk,” she said. The dogs scrambled up to follow after her, but she said, “You take them out, James. I want to be alone.” 

“Don’t stay out after dark, love,” he called after her, sounding whimsical, as if he couldn’t sense her hurt. “You’ll get lost.” 

* * * * 

As Anabelle walked, her thoughts meandered in every direction, but not for a moment did she pause to think about what direction her legs were taking her in. She was remembering a morning that had gone very differently from this one. A morning just last week, when the entire world seemed warm and safe, enveloped in James’s feigned love. 

James had been sleeping beside her, his breath slow and deep. 

_“H’s in Arabic need deep, strooong exhalations,”_ he’d told her recently. 

Like the way he breathed right now? Was that the type of exhalation she should be attempting to emulate? 

She'd watched him, voyeur of a sleeping boy, in the way she suspected he frequently watched her. She wished she could touch him without waking him, just to stroke his face, to further marvel at how soft slumber made him. It wasn’t that he looked special while asleep – just the opposite. With his eyes shut, any sign of his intellect was hidden. All that was left was a sixteen year-old kid with mediocre features. And that amazed her. 

She had pushed away their cool sheets, rising. She pulled the hotel curtain back in a single, sweeping motion, allowing the sunlight to pour through. James didn’t stirred, not even when she started the coffee maker, which always gurgled too loudly. 

She’d spent the morning staring at him from across the room, pensive. She was in an armchair, her knees to her chin, a hot mug in her hands. An idea had slipped across her mind, and as she followed the steady rhythm of his breathing – the only steady thing about him – she considered whether or not to act on it. 

She did. 

When James awoke around ten, Anabelle was back in her armchair, as if she had never moved, and she hid her smile by drinking the last dregs of her coffee. 

He sat up and the sheet fell to his lap, exposing his bony shoulders and chest. His fingers went to his own skin, and he saw the ink. 

She thought it would take him a moment to understand all of the lines, shapes, and numbers on his body, but immediately he said, “You figured out the area of my nipples by using the method of exhaustion? Really, Anabelle?” 

She cracked into laughter. 

He spent the morning in a spell of wonderment, tracing his fingers along all of the calculations she’d drawn so carefully. She’d measured the circumference of every one of his fingers, and scrawled the resulting numbers on his knuckles. She’d drawn a graph on his upper thigh and used it to record the precise number of freckles he had on various parts of his body. 

“You drew a cardioid over my heart,” he observed, outlining the fixed circle in the origin of the heart-like curve. “X equals A multiplied by 2…” He mumbled, in his beautiful Irish brogue, the parametric equations of the curve. Then his eyes flickered downwards and his eyebrows slanted upwards. “Really, Anabelle? Integral calculus for my _stomach?”_

“I wanted to know the area of your waist,” she explained. 

He swept the sheets off of his legs, set his feet to the floor, and wiggled his toes, admiring the measurements she’d scrawled on the surface of his toenails. He scampered to the hotel dresser’s mirror and grinned. 

“You didn’t draw anything on my face or neck. Good girl,” he said. Then he spotted the markings on his ears and chuckled. “Topology, Anabelle? Darling, you got lazy!” 

“Ears are complicated!” she said defensively, giggling. He turned around and gazed at her, with an expression that displayed, in that moment, a lucidity not usually found in the face of James Moriarty. He reached out, slowly, to touch her face, making sure that she was tangible. When he found solid flesh, he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her to his chest. There’d been something almost tender in that. 

“Thank you,” he had murmured. 

He’d been happy, Anabelle thought as she walked. He’d had one morning of mathematics, and pure _joy_ had shone from those dark eyes of his. Why couldn’t he see it? Why couldn’t he see that numbers could keep him alive? That the further obtainment of precise information would keep him sane? Keep him from wanting to blow his brains out – 

“Don’t scream.” 

Anabelle froze. She’d been walking down a street, and hadn’t realized how far she’d walked, or how empty the streets were here, or how none of the buildings around her looked familiar. She hadn’t noticed the alley, hadn't even looked up when a man emerged from it. It wasn't until he towered over her, with a knife in his hand, that her daydreams vanished. 

“Give me your money.” 

Anabelle stared. 

_“Quickly,”_ he snapped, lifting his knife. 

The Professor’s voice sounded in her head, telling her to rip off her purse, throw it on the ground, and run. She had most of her cash in her shoes anyway, so she reached for her shoulder strap and – 

“No, I’d like to be thorough,” the man said, stepping closer. “Run and I’ll hurt you.” 

“I’m Mrs. Moriarty,” she blurted. She had no idea why she said it, no idea where it’d come from. 

_Consider it my protection._

The man paused. She couldn’t see his face clearly, as a hood lowered over it, but the knife in his hand lowered. 

“Moriarty?” he whispered. 

“I’m the fiancé of James Moriarty,” she said. The man jolted like she’d shocked him. Seconds passed, then he took off running. It was like she’d become the attacker, and he the victim. She stared, too astonished to move, before retrieving her cell phone from her purse and dialing a number. 

“‘Ello dear, are you alright?” For some reason, James was speaking in an English accent. She could picture him clearly: waiting in her hotel room, twirling the phone cord around his finger. 

“James, I’m lost. Can you give me directions back to the hotel?” she said. “I – I almost got mugged.” 

“Poor darling, how troublesome that must have been. Come home to me.” He clucked his tongue. “What street are you on?” 

* * * * 

For some reason, James seemed to think that her having almost been mugged was the perfect occasion for sex. He began to kiss her as soon as she entered the hotel room, but she pushed him away. 

“Something wrong?” he asked, tilting his head. 

“What do you do?” 

“Oh, I can do a little of everything, anything you’d like, loads you’ve never heard of,” he whispered, misunderstanding. He wore a slanted smile, and purred into her ear, “Would you like to hear the menu?” 

“No,” she said. “What’s your job? Where do you get your money?” 

He looked into her eyes for a moment, and she could practically feel him extracting information from her. 

“The mugger recognized my name,” he said. Not a question, but she nodded anyway. “And so he left you alone.” 

Another nod. 

“He better have,” James muttered to himself, clenching his fists reflexively. 

“Why would he be frightened of you?” Anabelle asked. 

“Because he has every reason to be,” James said, and he turned around, walking toward the bed. “Everyone is frightened of me. Except for the Madders, of course, but you lot are a special breed.” 

“Who are the people at those parties, James? Why are they all so much older than us?” 

“Because we’re very mature, Anabelle. Don’t ask obvious questions,” he said. And then, “And I’m not ignoring your first question, dear. It’s just that I don’t answer questions if the inquirer already knows the answer.” 

Anabelle swallowed. Yes. She knew. Not the particulars, but the general idea behind his work. The general nature of those other party guests. She noticed things, could add facts together in an equation, reach a conclusion. She was good at that. 

“You talked to my chaperone. What did you tell her to keep her away from me?” 

James began to unbutton his collared shirt. “Do you know who gave me my greatest weapon? It’s not a knife or a gun or anything, it’s something much more…elegant.” 

“Who?” Anabelle asked. 

“You.” 

She frowned. “And what weapon would that be?” 

“I’d do anything for you, Anabelle. If someone ever so much as poked a pinky at you in a way you didn’t like, I would skin off their flesh and force feed it to them. I’d enjoy it. I can’t love, Anabelle. You know that, I like that you know that. But what I feel for you is the closest thing I can to love, and it’s made me realize just how far normal people will go to protect those dear to them. You’re the one who inspired me to start using hostages.” She opened her mouth, but he held up a finger and continued, “Don’t fret, love. I didn’t hurt a single hair on the head of your chaperone’s children. I just hinted that I _could,_ if the urge should for some reason hit me. I only told her it would be wise for her not to give me a reason. That was all.” 

Anabelle looked at him, looked at those big, hollow eyes, the darkness blinking out of them, and she walked toward the door. 

“Oh, come on, love, don’t leave,” he said, stepping after her. He put a hand on her shoulder just as she reached the door, and she seemed to crumble, leaning against the wall. 

“You’re awful,” she whispered, shaking her head. “You’re _awful.”_

“I am, I’m the worst, and I’m only getting worse,” he said. “I’m pure evil, and I _enjoy_ it. This is the only way I feel _alive._ This is what I was meant to do.” 

“No one is meant to do this!” Anabelle shouted, turning on him. 

“Sh, sh,” he said, pressing a finger to her lips. “Let’s not discuss this, it’s not important.” 

“Not _important?_ You – you _hurt_ people, James. That’s – ” 

“ – an exaggeration, dear. _I_ haven’t laid a finger on a single person since I was fourteen. I get others to do it for me, much cleaner that way. Actually, as I recall, it was your dear old father who inspired me to take this approach. You Madders are so inspiring.” He cocked his head. “It’s very obvious we have different moral playing grounds – ” 

“You don’t _have_ morals.” 

He grinned. “No, I don’t, do I? But you do. You _do.”_ He said this like he was just realizing it. “And I’m going to use them to my advantage. Right now.” 

“What?” 

“I need you, Anabelle. Just for the rest of this month. Please, I’m… I am lonely,” he said. He whispered, “I’m the loneliest man in the world. And what I said earlier, about killing myself…I didn’t mean to scare you. Actually, no.” He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Obviously I was trying to scare you. Obviously I wasn’t kidding. It wasn’t funny. I was angry, at you, for trying to help me. But I never would have done anything.” 

She believed him. 

“Stay with me for the rest of your trip, and I’ll do my very bestest not to get up to tricky business,” he hummed. “I’m so cold and empty without you. _Someone_ needs to keep me warm.” 

He spoke like it was all a joke to him, and his eyes sparkled with a certain mischief that very much backed up this impression. However, Anabelle knew the emptiness of his gaze, and the recollection of it made his pleas all too real to her. 

“The rest of the month,” she said carefully. 

“Of me on my best behavior,” he said. “Which is, admittedly, still very naughty behavior indeed, but I’ll spare your little heart the nasty details.” 

He reached beneath her shirt, pressed his hand flat against her heart, and felt it thumping there. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling only the life beneath her skin, and did not open them even as he said, “Will you stay?” 

_I never wanted to leave. That’s terrible, isn’t it?_

“What about the girls?” 

His eyes opened. “Hm?” 

“The girls you meet at parties.” 

“Are you jealous?” He seemed to thrill at the thought. 

“Not at all. Monogamy isn’t suitable for us,” she said. Which was true; James defied conventions, disregarded boundaries, was too avant-garde for anything as traditional as a monogamous relationship. “But… Do they…” She knew he was not fazed by crude language, but was still inclined to phrase her words delicately. “When you lead them to private rooms, do they follow willingly?” 

His lips curled into a smile. “Every single one. My ego couldn’t have it any other way.” 

She laughed, mainly because she was immeasurably relieved she would not have to be reporting him to the police, and could instead spend the remainder of her trip with him. 

“You’re very seductive,” she offered. “Suave.” 

“Dearest, stop, you’re making me blush,” he said in a girlish voice. Then, more seriously, “I’m only suave with you. I prefer the nice-guy act with other ladies.” 

“Do you?” she asked, truly curious. “How does that work?” 

He shrugged, and, seeing that she no longer intended to leave the room, walked back toward the bed. “Most of them are around men older and more suave than me; I don’t bother competing. They find the niceness relieving, and I find the lying fun.” 

“Why don’t you lie to me?” she asked. That made him pause for just a moment, but when he spoke he did not hesitate or stutter: “Because you’d see through it in a flash. Because you are the only one who knows me, all of me, even the bits I am ashamed of. Because you already know how full of hate and anger I am, and because you’re the only person in the entire world who doesn’t make me hateful and angry. Because it’s a relief to tell someone, ‘Honey, today I got a man to set another man on fire,’ and have them say, ‘How awful,’ while still able to look me in the eyes. Because you’re clever, you’re the only one as clever as me, and sometimes, in the morning, when I eat you out, it’s only because I’ve just woken from a dream where I was eating your brain.” 

* * * *

Anabelle kept her word. No matter what she found out about James, she did not try to leave early. She would keep the lonely criminal company until her month was up. 

And then, she decided, she would leave and never contact him again. She’d file a restraining order if she thought it’d make a difference. And, she promised herself, she would tell the Professor absolutely everything about her trip. 

* * * * 

One morning, Anabelle and James lay in bed and Anabelle brought up the party they had attended the night before. 

“The twins you hooked up with last night, the Gromovs,” she said. Normally she didn’t know the precise individuals that James mingled with at parties, but Halinka Gromov had approached Anabelle the night before and asked permission to sleep with her fiancé. Perhaps this was awkward, but Anabelle had thought it was rather considerate. 

“Mm, yes,” James said. “What of them?” 

“They both had eight toes. I hadn’t noticed until last night. Do you think they were both born without little toes?” she asked. “Or maybe they were just hidden in their sandals…” 

“Oh, no, you’re quite right. They haven’t any little toes.” 

“They were born like that? How odd,” she commented. James grinned. 

“No, darling. They haven’t any little toes because I ate them.” James laughed, and it sounded from his throat like a wheeze. 

“Are…are you serious? Stop it, James. Don’t laugh. That’s sick, completely. I can’t tell if you’re joking.” Anabelle sat up, looking down at him. His eyes were darting around strangely, as they sometimes did when he became especially manic. 

“I’m not, dear, I’m not,” he said, and his laughter died down. He looked at her. “Oh, stop it. Don’t be like that. It was a while back, maybe three months ago. And besides that – it was _fun.”_

She gaped. “You’re joking. Stop it. Stop it. Tell me you’re joking.” 

“I’m not, though, and I won’t lie to you. They liked it, Anabelle, I promise. They wanted me to. And I used anesthetics. It was much sexier than you’re imagining.” 

Anabelle looked at him, looked at the mouth she had kissed, kissed just a couple of minutes ago. She thought she was going to be sick. 

“I don’t believe you,” she decided. “I can’t.” 

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

* * * * 

When her last day in London came, she felt a bittersweet relief. James, as usual, had unplugged her alarm clock the night before, but she rose early regardless. James was curled up beside her, his arm wrapped around her chest and his legs draped over hers. In the last four weeks, she’d gotten used to waking up all swaddled in James. She thought she’d miss the feeling. She was eager to leave behind the boy who was frighteningly violent, or breathlessly romantic, depending on his whimsy. But this boy, the one who slept with her in his arms, wasn’t a boy she wanted to say goodbye to. She knew that when she returned to New York her bed would feel cold, empty without another body dreaming beside her. 

Maybe she’d get rid of her bed. 

James didn’t wake up until several hours later, after Anabelle had eaten and nearly finished her packing. As she began to look through the drawers of the room’s dresser, collecting any spare socks that she found, James said groggily, “What are you doing?” He rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the morning light. 

“My check-out’s at eleven,” she said. 

James checked his phone for the time. “That’s in an hour,” he said in alarm. 

“Don’t worry. My plane isn’t until four. We can spend some time in the city together before I leave.” 

“That’s only five hours.” 

Anabelle turned to him. “You knew I left today. I told you last night, and the night before.” 

“I didn’t think you were serious,” he said. “You… You can’t _actually_ leave me.” 

He stood, setting his feet on the floor, and approached her. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, and they looked at their reflections in the dresser mirror. 

“Don’t leave me,” he said. His voice was soft and pathetic, like a whining puppy. Anabelle was alarmed; she hadn’t expected him to do this, hadn’t thought he’d care. “Please…stay with me.” 

“I can’t, I have to go home,” she said. “But you can come and visit me in New York – ” 

“I DON’T WANT TO VISIT.” He threw out his arms, his voice shaking through the walls and probably alarming all the guests and maids in proximity. 

“Pleeeease.” When he turned to her, he seemed to have regained control of his temper. But she only watched him, wary. He tiptoed to her, theatrical, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Marry me, dearest.” 

She snorted. His face darkened. 

“I’m serious,” he said. “Marry me. You have to say yes – I’m proposing to you.” 

“You don’t have a ring,” she said, hoping teasing would soothe him. “And you’re not on one knee.” 

“I don’t kneel as a rule, but I can get a ring if you want one,” he said. “Any ring you want, and I do mean _any_ ring. Have you ever seen natural pearls, dear? Do you like emeralds, or diamonds? I can get you anything you’d like.” 

“No, I don’t want a ring. I’m going home today, not getting married,” she said. “I’m sorry, James, but I can’t just stay with you – ” 

“But you caaaan,” he whined. 

“I – ” 

“Lie with me.” 

“James, be serious. I leave in less than an hour now.” 

“Please. Just lying, nothing else.” He lowered his bottom lip, looking so sad that she surrendered. 

“Alright, but just for a little while,” she warned. Grinning, he dashed to the bed and wiggled his toes beneath the blanket, holding out his arm for her to tuck herself into his embrace. Sighing, she followed. 

He ended up wrapping all of his limbs around her, like she was some sort of tree and he a fungal parasite. When he slept, this cuddling was comforting. Now she felt strangled. 

He cooed into her ear. 

“Marry me,” he whispered. 

“I’m sixteen. You’re acting ridiculous.” 

“Be my wifey,” he moaned. He stroked her hair. “You’d be the prettiest wife. Just marry me. Be my wifey.” 

She let him have his time, although he was anything but attractive in that moment. She knew she was, in a strange way, privileged to see this. This was James Moriarty at his lowest and most pathetic; he wouldn’t let anyone else in the world see him like this. His eyes were unguarded and lonely, his voice clinging to her as desperately as his body was. 

“Be my wifey,” he kept repeating as he kissed her, as well as, “Anabelle Moriarty, Anabelle and James Moriarty.” 

Finally, he stopped talking, stopped kissing her, and just sobbed softly into her hair. He sniffled, every now and then wiping snot from the end of his nose onto the hotel sheets. 

“We’ll see each other again,” she said after several minutes. She planted a maternal kiss on his forehead. “Come on, get up.” 

“NO!” he roared, and he grabbed her as she tried to rise, throwing her back down onto the mattress. She thought for one wild moment that he was going to attack her, but he only kept her planted on the bed. “YOU HAVE TO SAY YES. YOU HAVE TO MARRY ME.” 

“James, shh, you’ll get security to – ” He smacked a hand down on her mouth. He straddled her, leering. His eyes glittered. 

“I could force you,” he boasted. “I could tie you on a little leash and my men could drag you out of here. You’d be forced to say the vows, and I’d keep my prett-y-little-wife-y,” he sang those words, “chained to the walls of my basement.” 

He released her mouth, presumably to hear what she thought of that, and she formed a fast tactic. He didn’t care about her, only himself. No plea would work – but a blow to his ego would. She countered, “And how pathetic would that be? That you’d have to force a woman to marry you? And I’d escape, anyway. Nothing could keep me there. I’m too clever for your men, and you can’t watch me all the time.” 

“I could,” he threatened. 

“That’d be boring,” she said. These words made him deflate. He slid off of her and sat on the edge of the bed, so that his feet touched the floor. He put his face into his hands. 

“Once you leave it’ll just be me again. Me amongst all the _normal_ people,” he said. Then pouted, “I hate being alone.” 

Although she felt bad for him, pity killed all of her attraction, and his rapid mood swings left her frightened, eager to get out. 

“Come on, let’s have lunch before I go,” she said. 

“No,” he said, and she was secretly relieved. “Just leave now. Pack and leave. I can’t even look at you. _I hate you.”_

He kept his face in his hands as she zipped up her suitcase, checking under the bed to make sure she had left nothing behind. 

“Goodbye, James,” she said softly. Then lied, “I love you.” 

“I can’t even look at you,” he kept repeating. And she believed it, not knowing that he watched her as she walked out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the song that's quoted in the summary, and that sort of inspired this chapter: [Don't Leave](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4AmkD0xnp4) by Ane Brun (Youtube link).


	23. Damnation est Éternelle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I managed to make all human hope vanish from my mind. To strangle every form of joy, I pounced on it, stealthily, like a beast.” –Arthur Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

When Sebastian leaves his flat to buy another pack of cigarettes, he returns to find the front door cracked open. It might seem strange to some people, but as he opens the door fully, he hopes someone broke in. Burglars tend to be weak, coke-addled men, and Sebastian can exterminate them easily, with his bare hands, just like he used to break the necks of the rats that found their way into his cereal cabinets. 

But Sebastian doesn’t get rats, or burglars, anymore. Which is why his hopes are puny, and squash down to nothing when he enters the flat and hears a slight shuffle of feet, two rooms off, like someone’s adjusting themselves on his couch. Feral panic rises in his throat like bile, and he reaches for his gun, crying out, “Jim?” 

Damn it. It would be just like Jim to dig himself out of his own grave while Sebastian was at the store. Sebastian walks past the kitchen and stands in the doorway of the living room, and even though the room is pitch black he can see the genius, sitting there, ready to pounce on Sebastian as soon as he switches on the light. Jim will hurt Sebastian, and Sebastian won’t fight back, because then he’d be hurt a lot more later on. Or Jim won’t hurt Sebastian at all, but he’ll wait around for the detective, and kill him, even though Sebastian wants that job. Or – no. Jim’s been here, he’s been waiting, watching, listening. He knows that Madder’s coming to London. Sebastian’s led Jim to her, right to her, and it’s all Sebastian’s fault, all his fault– 

“Bashy?” Baritone voice. Silly accent. Sebastian nearly falls to his knees with the force of the breath that leaves his body, all the keyed up energy and panic zapped out of it at once. 

A genius is waiting for him in the dark, but not the right genius. Which is to say, not the wrong genius. 

_Si la damnation est éternelle?_ he asks her. The woman who lives in his head, the one he trapped in time, replies, _You’re only as damned as you think you are, Seb._

_I think I’m damned, sweetey. I think I’m damned._

Sebastian turns on the light. 

“Siger!” he exclaims, tucking his gun back into his shoulder bag. “You let yourself in.” 

“I did.” The damn detective smiles, and it even reaches his damn eyes, the liar. “Did you think I was someone else?” 

_I thought you were the devil. Christ, Holmes. I thought_ He _came to bring me back to Hell._

_You haven’t left Hell,_ the woman says, but he has no response to that. 

Sebastian shrugs. “Say, you want some food or something? I’ve got pizza.” 

“We ate just a little over an hour ago,” the detective points out. Sebastian knows, svelte and slender as the detective is, he’s probably disgusted by Sebastian’s _l'appétit incessant._ But Holmes can try working out as many hours as Sebastian, and fuck himself if he doesn’t need 3,000 calories a day, too. 

“Suit yourself,” he says, returning to his kitchen. The detective follows after him. 

Christ, he’s good. Holmes even walks a bit like a gay man – a slight roll of the hips, perkily energetic, but not enough to be outrageous. Subtle, effeminate. It kinda works. 

“You said ‘Jim,’” Holmes says, trying to sound casual, as Sebastian opens his fridge and takes out a pizza box. “When you came into your flat.” 

“Thought you were an old friend.” Sebastian nearly gags at the word ‘friend.’ 

“Oh, right. Jim…Moriarty, was it?” Like the detective doesn’t know. “I’m sorry, but I thought he was…” 

_Dead. Yeah, I hope so too, but I’ve carried his fucking corpse and I’m still calling out his name,_ Sebastian thinks. He takes a moment, wondering if he should tell the detective the truth, that any person saner than Sebastian knows that Jim’s gone, gone, gone. 

Instead he says, “Dead? No one’s really sure, are they?” 

The detective does a wonderful job of concealing his alarm, but Sebastian thinks he can smell it on him anyway. “Really? So he could be alive?” 

“Might be.” Sebastian shrugs and takes a bite of some cold pizza. “Never could find his body.” 

“That’s great for you, isn’t it?” Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Holmes is smiling like Sigerson Bøler would, but he’s probably ready to curl up in fetal position and cry his scared eyes out. 

“Yeah,” Sebastian says through a mouthful of crust. “Sure is.” 

And he’s laughing, on the inside, because while he could just shoot Holmes in the head, it’s a lot more fun to mess with Holmes's head instead. He thinks he might understand the sick appeal of Jim’s little mind games. 

Or maybe it goes deeper than that. Maybe Sebastian doesn’t like mind games at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be the only one stuck in a mind game anymore, and maybe he’s tired of being the only one, after all these months, still dreading the day Jim comes back. Maybe he’s weary of solitude, and wants someone to share his fear with. 

And maybe he doesn’t shoot Holmes because, really, he stopped believing in his own bullets a long time ago. 

* * * * 

As nonchalantly as he can, Sherlock slips out his mobile and texts Mycroft, _You’re sure you never found Moriarty’s body?_

He’s not certain he believes Moran. But why would Moran lie about Moriarty’s death? Is it a coping mechanism – he misses Moriarty so much that he can’t admit he’s gone? Maybe he was in love with his boss. 

Or maybe it’s the truth. A blank bullet. A packet of blood. It could be done. But in front of Sherlock? And Sherlock hadn’t noticed? No, impossible. Moriarty has to be dead. 

Yet somehow he still feels sick, thinking about it. And so tired he could collapse. 

  


Sherlock had had a solid fifteen minutes alone in Moran’s flat, before Moran returned, and during that time he had done enough observing and deducing to feel well-acquainted with his enemy. For example, he found equipment in Moran’s bedroom that indicates Moran can bench press at least 300 lbs with ease. Sherlock knows from the fumes on Moran’s clothing that Moran smokes a brand of cigarettes so cheap and foul that even Sherlock, at his highest point of nicotine-craving, wouldn’t care for them. He knows that Moran’s wardrobe consists almost entirely of black, tight clothing, suggesting he works mostly at night, but he also knows from the way Moran’s best rifles have been left dusty in his closet that Moran hasn’t done any real work in several months. He knows that Moran doesn’t have to work, because Moran is, in fact, rich. He has wads of cash crammed into crooks and crevices all over his flat, as if he hasn’t spent a noteworthy amount of money in years and hasn’t a clue what to do with his salary. 

Sherlock wonders why Moran doesn’t use some of it to hire a housekeeper – the flat could use it. Then he growls, low in his throat, wondering why he’s suddenly noticing messiness when he never noticed it before. It’s not like he hasn’t lived in his own share of unsanitary flats. 

It must be Anabelle. Traveling with her for months, he’s gotten used to her neatness. Now he’s hyperaware of all the dust he takes in with every inhale. 

He’s also, at the moment, hyperaware of his need to pry Luke Madder’s location from Moran. Of course, it might merely be a matter of waiting for the right opening in a conversation, or for Sigerson Bøler to win Moran’s trust – but Sherlock has never been passive about anything, and, even now, he has a plan. But it’s one that can wait until morning. 

“What’s that?” Moran asks. They sit across from one another at Moran’s wobbly kitchen table. Moran’s on his fourth slice of pizza. 

“What’s what?” Sherlock asks. 

“The whistling,” Moran says. “It sounded nice.” 

Whistling? Sherlock isn’t aware that he’d been whistling. Moran must see the bafflement in his face, because he puts his lips together and whistles a tune, one that Sherlock recognizes. 

“It was that,” Moran says. “’S’nice.” 

Stupid people love repeating themselves. 

The song Moran picked up is the notes that, weeks back in a hotel in San Francisco, Sherlock converted from a series of numbers and equations. It’s the music he’d composed to remember all of the math Anabelle had scrawled on her dorm room during her uni years. It seems intrusive, coming from Moran. 

“Don’t sing that,” Sherlock commands, forgetting, for a moment, to be Sigerson. He makes his tone soften. “Sorry. It’s just that it’s…personal.” 

Sherlock gets up, not trusting himself to be around his enemy in his exhausted, absentminded state, and he heads into the living room. Fortunately, Moran doesn’t follow. 

He checks his email – anything, not to fall asleep. The thing he finds jolts him right awake. 

A message from Dr. John Watson. Subject: Thank You For Believing. 

_Stupid John,_ Sherlock thinks affectionately. _You don’t have to capitalize every word in an email subject, it’s not a title._

But he opens the email anyway, addressed to Sigerson Bøler, and he finds a note thanking Sigerson for his condolences, and – more importantly – for believing that Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. There’s nothing overly sentimental in it, nothing to suggest that John’s suicidal, or anything extreme. It does sound, however, flat. Stale, like John didn’t have enough energy to put any sincerity in the note. 

Sherlock’s phone buzzes. He takes it out and reads, from Mycroft, _I’m positive. Is there a problem?_

Sherlock ignores the question and sighs. He steeples his fingers together, preparing to ruminate on the possibility of Moriarty being alive, and leans back his head. He jumps up when his skin comes into contact with four cold fingertips, and a thumb. 

“Siger, your skin’s all swollen,” Moran says casually, like he hasn’t just snuck behind Sherlock and, for some reason, touched him. The idiotic mountain stretches up one long, muscled leg over the couch. He hops over the back of the couch instead of walking around it, and sits beside the detective. “Something wrong with you?” 

* * * * 

It was like Sebastian couldn’t control himself. He genuinely wanted to keep the detective alive, for as long as it took to get to Madder, and yet when he left the kitchen he found himself stepping on the carpet in the way he only stepped when he was working – so light as to be unheard by even the sharpest of men, like he was made of air instead of bulk and muscle. He saw the back of the detective’s head and reached out, wanting to know whether or not he could wrap his whole massive hand around skinny Holmes’s neck, wanting to know how easy it would be to strangle him. And then the detective – lucky bastard – had leaned back just before Sebastian intended to grab. He’d jumped up and turned, but not before Sebastian registered swollen skin just above the base of the detective’s neck, and hot, hot flesh. 

The detective feels the back of his head and realizes that what Sebastian said is true. Sebastian wonders if he shouldn’t have pointed it out – clearly the detective wasn’t aware. 

“Swollen lymph nodes,” Holmes says, blinking. 

“You’ve got a fever,” Sebastian says. 

“Do I?” Holmes presses his own hand against his forehead, like he’d be able to tell that way. Sebastian wonders how a genius could act so completely retarded. 

“Yeah. Don’t you feel…off?” Sebastian asks. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicker away from Sebastian, like he’s thinking. But he quickly says, “No. No, I feel fine.” 

Sebastian can tell it’s a lie. 

  


It’s hard to explain, but the detective’s swollen lymph nodes, of all things, cause Sebastian to feel something other than contempt for the detective. There’s a vulnerability, not just in the swollen and feverish skin, but in the fact that the detective _hadn’t known._ It seems a little sad that a man could be so wrapped up in his own mind that he doesn’t even notice when he’s got a fever. But that’s the frailty of genius, Sebastian supposes. The frailty of being human – you’ve always got a weakness, even if your I.Q. is above 140. 

Sebastian bets his bullets would work on the detective. And somehow, that makes Sebastian less eager to shoot him. 

  


This convoluted reasoning is why, that night, just before the detective sprawls out on Sebastian’s couch, Sebastian stops in his tracks on his way to his bedroom and says, “Siger?” 

“Yes?” 

“I, um, wasn’t completely honest with you,” he confesses. 

The detective looks right at him. Sebastian wonders if he’s really got brown eyes, or if those are colored contacts. “About what, Bashy?” 

Sebastian cringes at the name, and considers not continuing, but says, “About Jim. He is dead. He’s definitely dead.” 

And all at once, Sebastian sees it. The detective is free, free from the same type of worry Sebastian’s been struggling with for the last several months. The psychopath isn’t coming back, and no matter how many snipers or other enemies the detective may have to face, nothing compares to the fear he felt when he thought Jim might saunter out of the darkness. It’s the same unutterable relief Sebastian felt when he first saw his boss with a bullet in his brain, before he’d had time to doubt it, before the glorious image of Jim Moriarty’s corpse had become something fantastical, unreal. 

Sebastian looks at the detective’s face, freed, and doesn’t wait to hear a response. He stalks into his bedroom for the night, to lift weights and sleep – or rather, try to sleep. Mainly lift weights. He keeps thinking that maybe if he was just a little bit stronger, if he could lift one more pound, he could truly free himself of Jim Moriarty. 

_But Seb,_ the woman whispers in his head, _you know better than that. It takes a different kind of strength to break invisible chains._

_Go to sleep, Anabelle,_ he grumbles in his brain. _Damnation est éternelle._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who doesn't know, "Si la damnation est éternelle?" means, "What if damnation is eternal?" and is a reference to Rimbaud's A Season in Hell. Yes. Sebby knows his French literature. :)


	24. What Is Not Feigned

The room is hot. 

Correction: Sherlock is hot. 

The room is 22 degrees Celsius, according to the thermometer on the wall, and objectively that’s not too warm. But Sherlock’s innards are scorching. His skin isn’t on fire, it _is_ fire, pure heat, and he’s melting into the cushions of Moran’s couch. He’s ripped off all of his clothes except his pants, and he lies sprawled, trying to recollect himself. He blames his state on his racing thoughts: they’re blazing, crammed inside his skull, hot atoms bouncing about, boiling, bubbling, overflowing their bone-brim, threatening to crack through his coronal suture. He groans and recedes into his head, trying to hold onto one of the thousands of images, ideas, and facts that flicker dimly at the horizon of his consciousness before being whisked away. It’s useless. There’s nothing to grab onto, nothing that demands his concentration. He can’t _focus,_ and it hurts, it hurts so badly not to, all he needs is one thing on which to – 

A cry sounds from the next room. Sherlock jumps, eager to absorb every aspect of that cry, from its pitch to its tone, and analyze it thoroughly, suck out its marrow to save his own sanity. 

In his heat-riddled haze, he thinks for one confused moment that the crier is John. He wrote a letter to John earlier, just before making a failed attempt at sleep. In the postscript he had written, _By the way, did I mention I’m not dead?_ He’d backspaced that bit before hitting ‘send,’ but now he thinks he hadn’t after all, and through that one sentence John has found him, and he’s made John cry. 

Then he remembers John isn’t that clever, and stands. 

Through the thin wooden door is a man, but it’s not John. It is Sebastian Moran. Sherlock blames _him_ for Sherlock’s current distress. If only he could be a better distraction, Sherlock wouldn’t have such a massive migraine right now. 

Yet maybe Moran _could_ be a distraction. He’s cried out just like John used to, meaning he’s had a nightmare. And that could be all the ammunition Sherlock needs to set off his plan. 

His plan is simple, because Moran is a simple man: Be Sigerson Bøler, and convince Moran that Bøler has fallen in love with Moran. Use a feigned romantic relationship to extract Luke Madder’s location from Moran, and then leave. Easy. 

Sherlock enters Moran’s bedroom. The room is dark, thick curtains swept across the windows to block out any moonlight. The only dilution to the darkness comes from the faint light of Sherlock’s laptop, which sits on the coffee table in the living room; an eerie blue glow washes over Moran’s bed, revealing the hulking sniper as a shadowy, panting mass, tangled in his own duvet. From the way the head of the shadow turns, Sherlock can tell that Moran has seen him. Moran utters one word of acknowledgement. 

“Jim,” he says, and sighs. 

Sherlock is taken aback. Not because Moran is wrong. Stupid people are usually wrong, and this wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock has been mistaken for a psychopath. Rather, it is the way Moran says the word. He sounds like a man defeated before the fight has even begun. It wasn’t an acknowledgement of a supposed presence so much as it was an acknowledgement of his own surrender. 

“It’s me,” Sherlock says, in Sigerson’s voice. 

“H…Siger,” Moran says. Sherlock observes that Moran immediately pushes himself into a sitting position, and deduces that Moran doesn’t trust Sigerson, doesn’t feel comfortable being in a vulnerable position while in Sigerson’s proximity. That will have to change. 

With all of the shameless alacrity of the nonexistent Norwegian, Sherlock clambers into Moran’s bed and says, “Are you alright?” He sits too close to Moran. Aware that his facial expressions can’t be seen, he tilts his head, hoping Moran will imagine he’s wearing a face of concern. 

Moran looks at Sherlock’s silhouette for a moment, in a daze, and then erupts into laughter. His laughter is deep and masculine, coming from low in his throat and sounding out like a bark. 

“What’s funny?” Sherlock asks. 

“The thought of anyone giving a shit whether I’m alright.” Moran’s laughter dies down to a quickly-fading chuckle. “S’funny.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock supposes that if someone tells him something is funny, it probably is. He’s not good at gauging humor. But, somehow, he can’t get himself to laugh. 

He clears his throat. He’s not sure what he imagined, but he thought that Moran would make this easy. This comforting business, he means. Thought Moran might want a hug or a cry or something. But he’s just sitting here, cross-legged. 

“You miss Jim, then?” Sherlock asks. 

_Jim,_ Moran had said, making it obvious that was who Moran had been dreaming of. Sherlock had assumed he and Moriarty were lovers, but after hearing the saddening defeat in Moran’s voice, he has to doubt this. Sherlock hadn’t even considered that Moran might not be gay – but if he isn’t, Sherlock’s plan is rather useless. 

There’s another bark of laughter, this time hollow. If Sherlock were to go into that laugh, he would find a deep, labyrinthine emptiness. 

He doesn’t go into it. He presses his back against Moran’s headboard, distancing himself from the sniper. 

So this is what becomes of those who serve madmen. 

* * * * 

“You miss Jim, then?” 

What an innocent question for a potential romantic interest to be asking. 

_Your dead boyfriend then, you’re not over him yet?_

“You miss Jim, then?” 

What a revealing question for a detective to ask. 

_Do you still serve your old boss? Why? Out of love? A hunger for power? A lust for violence? Tell me about yourself, Sebastian, peel yourself open and show me your insides. I’m a snooping detective, and I’ve crawled into your bed to find out_ everything. 

Sebastian doesn’t mind. He loved a girl who, at one time, would wake him up from his nightmares and spend nights tracing her fingers down his arms, filling his head with _her_ dreams, the rich and intricate stories her subconscious wove her. But that girl left because she fell for a detective, and every woman who’s been in his bed since has always scrambled out as soon as they heard his nightly cries. Not that he blames them. If Sebastian could leave Sebastian, he would. 

To be woken up from a bad dream, by a human being, has got to be the best feeling in the world. The detective is real and warm and _human,_ blatantly human, and he’s crossed his legs and put his hands in his lap, unconsciously mimicking Sebastian’s body language in a way so very – human. When Sebastian dreams in the depths of Hell, he needs to be brought back. And here the detective is, yanking him insistently back to Earth. Thank you, detective. _Merci, merci beaucoup! What an unexpected gift you’ve given me!_

Sebastian laughs. 

“No, I don’t miss that fuck.” He pauses, perking his dominant ear in the direction of the door. _Are you there, boss? Are you eavesdropping? If you heard that, I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…_ “No, I don’t miss him.” 

“A nightmare about him, then?” the detective asks. 

“Yeah,” Sebastian murmurs. 

He knows the detective is prying because it’s important to understand the psyche of your enemy. Jim used to scrape away at a person’s walls, so easily, revealing their psyche like red, gleaming muscles left exposed after all the skin’s been peeled away. 

Sebastian knows it could be dangerous to describe to Holmes how, in his sleep, Sebastian was chained to the stone wall of one of Jim’s cells. How his arms were yanked upwards, pulling his shoulders out of their sockets. How Jim’s suited shadow entered the cell a moment before he did, darkness heralding the arrival of Satan. 

There’d been the lackadaisical way Jim looked around, his big, big eyes circling the cell with feigned interest, or perhaps real interest covered by feigned interest. He said, “You ought to be honored, Bashy. This is the first time I’ve ever visited these cells. I’m not one for getting my hands dirty, but for you, luv, for _you_ … Well. I do love exceptions.” 

“I’m honored, boss,” Sebastian had said. That had made Jim laugh. And he laughed later, too, when Sebastian was tongue-tied and terrified. He laughed when the guard outside handed him the blowtorch. 

He laughed as he said, _“Do you love her, Bashy?”_ Over his laughter, the flame from the blowtorch had been blue. “ _Do you love her, Bashy, do you love her? Bashy-boy, tell me, do you – ”_

“What was it about?” The detective’s voice transports him again. Back to Earth, back to Earth. 

Sebastian recounts, to Holmes, every detail of his nightmare. The only thing he alters – which is not at all a lie, and barely an omission – is the fact that the nightmare is a memory. 

Sebastian willingly unfolds the internal vulnerabilities of his psyche to the detective as a little thank you. _Thanks for waking me up. In exchange I’ll tell you every intimate detail about myself, shall I?_ He does this in hopes that if the detective finds Sebastian thrashing in his bed on some other night, he’ll wake him up again. 

And besides. Sebastian has always been one to show his appreciation. 

_What a gooooood sniper you are. What a good doggy-woggy sniper, Bashy. Leading the detective on like this,_ Jim coos in his head. Fear coils in his chest until he hears Anabelle remind him, _One must live utterly in the present._

_Et il faut être absolument moderne,_ Sebastian thinks. _I know, Anabelle. I know._

* * * * 

After one week, Sherlock is calling Sebastian ‘Sebby,’ never ‘Bashy.’ He knows not to use ‘Bashy’ anymore, and Sebastian is calling Sherlock ‘dear.’ Sebastian, it turns out, is not a _complete_ idiot, as it only takes him two nights to observe that Sherlock has difficulty sleeping. 

“I’m alert, sort of, at night. And I’m tired during the day,” Sherlock had admitted. “I’m used to it.” 

“Used to it?” Sebastian had repeated. He repeats things just like John. And, just like it’d been with John, Sherlock finds himself becoming more patient with Sebastian. 

“I’m a fashion blogger. I travel a lot. It’s typical for my circadian rhythm to become reversed. A symptom of messing with time zones.” 

Sebastian had frowned and said, “That doesn’t…totally make sense…” His voice faded to nothing by the time he got to the final word, as if he wasn’t comfortable contradicting Sherlock. 

Sherlock hadn’t responded. Some part of him knew Sebastian was right, but blaming his reversed circadian rhythm on his frequent traveling was the best theory he had right now. He was too preoccupied tracking the meticulously-plotted progress of his ‘relationship’ with Sebastian to spend time thinking about why he sometimes fell asleep, very abruptly, during the day. 

The two men form a system regarding their nights. Sherlock stays up, waking Sebastian every few hours, so that Sebastian never has enough time to dream. For most of the night, the two men sit across from one another, Sherlock reaching over to hold Sebastian’s hands, and Sebastian gives him information. Sebastian Moran is significantly more naïve than John, and maybe even more honest – he relinquishes whatever information the concerned Sigerson asks of him. After just a few nights, Sherlock finds out more about Moriarty’s empire than he has in the last couple of years. 

“Why don’t you just get an alarm to wake you, Seb?” Sherlock asked Sebastian one night. 

“I prefer to be woken up by someone,” Sebastian had answered. “Do you mind?” 

Sherlock made his eyes widen. “Of course not, Seb. I love being with you.” 

* * * * 

“I love being with you.” Sherlock said it to Sebastian like it was a joke. That’s how he speaks when he pretends to be Sigerson Bøler. He’s got this light, feathery way of talking, like everything is a joke to him. Except it’s not a joke in the way everything was a joke to Jim. Jim hoarded humor, soaked so much of it up that everyone else was left with nothing to laugh at, miserable. Sherlock – or Sigerson, sometimes Seb can’t tell – makes mutual jokes. Sebastian likes that. 

Sebastian is very aware of what is feigned in their relationship. Anything sentimental that Sherlock ever says is automatically ignored. And yet Sebastian needs to play up a little, too, pretend that he believes it. Sometimes he says affectionate things back, and sometimes Sherlock and Sebastian sit side-by-side on the couch together, watching TV with their hands loosely at their sides, like they both would love to hold hands but just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Rather, they both need to feign a mutual attraction for their own needs, but the thought of actually touching another male in a romantic way makes both of them mildly queasy. And so Sebastian will shower with the door open, an invitation for Sigerson to join him, knowing full well that Sherlock never would. And Sherlock will dress in front of Sebastian, and Sebastian will pretend to be interested in what he sees, and Sherlock will pretend to be interested in Sebastian’s interest, and the whole thing is rather ridiculous, really, but this is what they do. 

Sebastian is very aware of what is not feigned in their relationship. There are times when he’s in the living room at 3 A.M. and can hear only the rapid typing of Sherlock’s fingers, and the occasional grunts that emerge from his own throat as he lifts kettle bells. Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to be Sigerson Bøler, so he doesn’t pretend to look at Sebastian as he works out, and the room fills with a soft contentment. It’s pleasant, and not a bit of it is faked. 

Sherlock Holmes is nothing like Jim Moriarty. Sebastian had thought that mind games and perversions were symptoms of genius, but apparently that was just Jim being a prick. Because Sherlock is plenty clever, but he’s never made Sebastian feel the way Jim would intentionally make him feel. 

One afternoon, Sebastian returned to his flat and the noise roused Sherlock from slumber. As soon as Sherlock looked at Sebastian, as Sebastian set down his grocery bags, he said, “You bought me a pack of cigarettes.” 

Sebastian nodded and silently reached into one of the bags. After he threw the pack over and Sherlock caught it, Sherlock said, “Well?” 

“Well what?” Sebastian asked. 

“Don’t you want to know how I knew?” 

That had confused Sebastian. Jim had never explained how he knew things he wasn’t supposed to know. He said, “Um…I guess?” 

“It was a simple deduction. You’ve got nicotine stains underneath your fingernails, from those awful cigarettes you smoke. But beneath your thumb, there’s a mismatching stain. So: You recently smoked a cigarette of a different brand. A better brand. But everything in this house smells like _your_ brand of cigarettes, and you’re a man of habit, so why change brands now? You wouldn’t. You’re a considerate man, though, so you thought you’d buy a brand I’d prefer. But then, of course, you couldn’t resist smoking just one before you gave me the rest of the pack. Hence the thumb stain. Child’s play.” 

And it was child’s play, when Sherlock explained it all like that. It had never dawned on Sebastian that Jim had some sort of system, equally logical, for figuring things out. He’d been vaguely under the impression that Jim’s abilities were supernatural, godlike. He wondered, in that moment, if this impression had been instilled deliberately. 

Sebastian can also tell that the satisfaction Sherlock Holmes gets from being told his observations are correct is not feigned. It’s nearly cute, really, how pleased Sherlock will get. He looks like a child who’s just been given a gold star. Jim had never needed reassurances, or encouragement, from other people. 

Sebastian knows that Sherlock Holmes is not just a genius. He’s a man. As time goes on, it becomes increasingly difficult for Sebastian to equate Sherlock with Holmes the genius detective. Sebastian thinks that maybe, eventually, he will forgive Sherlock the man for being Holmes the genius. 

Maybe. 

* * * * 

Two weeks have passed, and they are sitting outside a café. Sherlock is wondering if Sebastian can tell it’s her. 

No, definitely not. Not because Sebastian is stupid, but because he is immersed in his own narrative. Sherlock is mostly immersed, too. 

“Jim stayed in Paris,” Sebastian says, “at one of Alard Gruner’s houses. He shot Alard, though, I think. Can’t remember why. Oh, yeah, I remember. He wanted to try out one of my guns. Got all pissy when I told him his aim sucked, but he still managed to kill Gruner. Then Gruner’s property went to his son, Adelbert. Adelbert is a _madman,_ a complete psychopath. Never liked him.” 

She’s standing there, by the bus stop across the street from the café. Two buses stopped there, and passengers have filed off and shuffled on, but she’s remained. Her blue hijab is wrapped delicately over her hair, strands of it falling loosely, like unraveled twine. Sherlock’s fingers twitch. 

“There were nine underground floors,” Sebastian is saying. “I only ever saw five of them, but I can describe them, if you’d like?” 

“Mm, yes, do so,” Sherlock says. He turns his attention fully on Sebastian again. Sebastian’s sketching as he speaks – there’s a pencil in his big hand, and he’s reconstructing Moriarty’s main dwelling on a napkin. Sherlock is pleased to see that it looks architecturally feasible. Sebastian has a skill for sketching anything he sees, or has seen, with relative accuracy. He was apparently unaware of this skill until Sherlock urged him to put it to (Sherlock’s) use. 

“The bottom floor consists of thirty-or-so cells. Jim rarely used them, but sometimes he did…” 

The woman has been watching ever since Sherlock and Sebastian took their outdoor seats. Sherlock’s on his fourth coffee in his effort to caffeinate his way out of lethargy. He wonders vaguely if she’s been counting. 

“Siger, are you listening?” 

“Hm?” Sherlock says tiredly. When he looks up he sees a blurry, swaying image of Sebastian. Sebastian is leaning forward, concerned. 

“You look like you’re going to pass out,” he says. 

That’s the last thing Sherlock hears before he passes out. 

  


He comes to a few seconds, or maybe a full minute, later. By then the woman has dashed across the street and she’s got Sherlock. His head is in her lap and he looks up to find that she’s ripped her hijab away, and she’s shouting orders at someone, although Sherlock can’t see who. He feels dizzy and knows he’s going to fall asleep, for a very long time, in just a couple more seconds. 

Before he does he manages a self-satisfied smile, and he says, as if proving a new theory of his correct, “I knew it was you.” 

* * * * 

Sebastian is still sitting. He’s got his coffee mug in his hand like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored to the world. He’s staring at Anabelle Madder, slack-jawed, and his first thought is absurd. 

_She looks so much older,_ he thinks, and wonders if he looks older, too. He was always so afraid, back then, that she’d think of him as an old man. Although eight years isn’t such a difference – 

“Seb, listen to me!” she’s shouting. “I need you to pick him up, I can’t do it. We need to go to your apartment.” 

He’s dazed, he’s walking like he’s in a dream, but not for a moment does he think he’s dreaming. Firstly, Sebastian doesn’t have dreams, he has nightmares, and this is certainly not a nightmare. But secondly, and more importantly, nothing has ever looked as real as Anabelle Madder looks in this moment. His senses zoom in on her, and he gets a glimpse of what it must be like to be Sherlock Holmes, or even Jim, and see everything in flawless, radiating detail. 

She is all hard in that way women can be hard, sometimes, when they try, but really it is still soft because they are women. Even with her biceps bulging attractively where they used to be attractively underdeveloped, Sebastian could still span one hand around both of her arms. And he could loop his other around her waist, maybe, and pick her up that way. 

She used to wear floral dresses, but now she wears a white collared shirt, a thin, silvery tie, and a faded pair of workaday jeans. The outfit is woman-hard, meaning it is soft, and the mannish cut of her attire only aids in pointing to the figure beneath, which is distinctly feminine. 

Sebastian drapes Sherlock over his shoulder and holds out a hand to Anabelle. This is not because he thinks she needs help in rising, but because he needs to see her tiny hand and look at her unpainted nails and her glorious overgrown cuticles. She acquiesces, and when their fingers touch Sebastian feels a light gust of air blow over him. They both hold their breath as she rises, and it takes a very long time, during which Sebastian never looks away from her hand. It’s been ten years and he is not yet done marveling over how small her hand is when it is touching his. Then she is standing, and the moment is over, and she is telling one concerned waiter that their friend will be alright, they’re taking him to a hospital. 

She turns to Sebastian, and the bobby pins that had been holding her hair back into her hijab have mostly come loose. Hair blows in her face, and it was short when he last saw her. Her skin is a summer-dark brown but her eyes are still darker. And yet the lightest thing he’s ever known. 

She walks past him, knowing where his car is, and he follows after. Neither of them say a word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel obliged to mention that I do not agree with any of Sebastian's thoughts regarding women.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Comments are very appreciated.


	25. Clearing the Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insanity devoured him, and what had once been a simile – Jim is like the devil – turned all at once into a reality he was sure of – Jim _is_ the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write. This chapter was difficult to organize, which makes me a bit nervous about how it's come out... But voila.

Sebastian’s instructed to drive to his flat. By the time they arrive and he drags Sherlock out of the backseat, Sherlock’s skin is burning hot. 

“Christ, Christ, fucking Christ,” Sebastian is hissing. Sherlock is limp in Sebastian’s arms, his long legs swinging against the front door as Sebastian tumbles into the flat. “I have a thermometer somewhere,” he tells Anabelle, as she locks the door behind them. He peers around the flat, dark even in daylight, and sees the silhouettes of piles of junk. “Aw, fuck it. We’ll never find it.” 

“We don’t need a thermometer. It’s clear he’s burning up,” Anabelle says. Sebastian enters the living room and sets Sherlock on the couch. “Did you know he was sick?” 

Sebastian isn’t sure how to answer that. 

“The fucker wouldn’t do anything about it,” he says defensively. He doesn’t mention that, for the first week Sebastian had known Sherlock, he hadn’t _wanted_ Sherlock to do anything about it. “He was getting fevers, sporadically, but he never _passed out.”_ He admits, sheepishly, “I slipped him Tylenols in his tea a few times. He didn’t know.” 

li Anabelle looks at Sebastian in quiet surprise for a moment, and then she says, “I’ll get a cool cloth.” 

“Anabelle,” Sebastian says. “Ms. Madder, I mean – ” 

“Anabelle.” 

“Right. Anabelle. I think he needs more than a cloth. He – he needs a hospital. A bloody doctor.” Sebastian looks back at Sherlock, whose bony chest rises and falls in great breaths. Christ, how could a man look so delicate? Why didn’t he fucking take care of himself? He just sat around on his computer all day, growing pale and weird in Sebastian’s dark living room. Why did he do that? Why the fuck did he have to go and do that? Why couldn’t the little bastard take vitamins or something? 

“Get yourself a drink and sit down, Sebastian,” Anabelle says. Her voice is firm, but not unkind. She bends over Sherlock and begins unbuttoning his pink collared shirt. What a stupid fucking shirt. What a stupid fucking disguise. Why did Sherlock do so many stupid fucking things? Like getting a fever. Fucking stupid. Why? 

“What’s that?” Sebastian asks wildly, seeing easily over Anabelle’s shoulder. 

Over Sherlock’s left breast is an angry, scarlet sore, vivid and ugly. Around the mark is a pink rash, which looks itchy, although Sebastian can’t recall Sherlock ever scratching. Had he been too busy thinking all his bloody clever thoughts, deducing Seb’s past based on the color of Seb’s socks, to notice the fucking _welt on his skin?_ Idiot. 

Anabelle pulls out her phone. 

“Anabelle. Call 999. Right now,” Sebastian says. 

“I can’t, Sebastian, and you know perfectly well why I can’t. He has a disguise to maintain and wouldn’t thank us for ruining that,” Anabelle says. She texts for a moment before looking up, taking in Sebastian’s shocked expression. She rolls her eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know he’s Sherlock Holmes. I know you know.” She tucks her phone away. 

Oh, Anabelle. You were always the only one who saw Sebastian clearly. The only one who ever realized that Sebastian does, in fact, know things. Not about calculus or chemistry or any scientific bullshit, of course. But he can figure the basics out. Like he knows when a man is the man he claims to be, and when he isn’t. Sebastian knows these things. 

“Right. Yeah, okay, I know.” 

“He doesn’t know you know?” Anabelle asks. 

“I don’t think so,” Sebastian says. Anabelle looks at him. 

“Get yourself a drink, Sebastian,” she says again, quietly. “We’re going to be here until he wakes up.” 

“He’s definitely going to wake up?” She doesn’t laugh at the anxiety in his voice. 

“Yeah,” Anabelle says. “He’ll wake up.” 

* * * * 

There’s a cold bottle of beer in his hand but his body is hot, hot, hot. Someone ought to tell him he’s not the man with the fever in this room. 

Nah. His body’s not hot. It’s 37 degrees Celsius, or whatever the fuck human body temperature is. Jim told him it changed during peaks of the day or something, just slightly. Sebastian can’t remember how, though. It doesn’t matter. Point is: He’s not hot. He’s just remembering heat. 

_Hey Anabelle,_ he says, but he doesn’t really say it. He looks at her and imagines he’s saying it. She’s sitting cross-legged on his dirty carpet and he’s sitting across from her. He feels very far away. He says to her, not really saying it, _Do you remember when we were here, and we had a fever? Remember when we set ourselves on fire?_

He’d been sitting on the floor. She’d come out of his bathroom and was suddenly in his lap. She’d been wrapped in a towel. He’d bought new towels for her – thick, soft, white ones. Water from her pixie-short hair dripped onto his shoulders. Shower steam, which had been entangled around her naked body just moments before, escaped the bathroom, heating up the flat. 

Immediately he’d been ready to take her into his bedroom. He wouldn’t have asked why she was suddenly nearly naked in his lap. He wouldn’t have wondered where Jim was. He wouldn’t have done anything but take her to bed. Except she said, “I don’t care what you say. Let’s do it. _Now.”, _and the reminder that he normally said things made him say things again.__

“You know we can’t,” he’d said, staring at her neck. 

“Jim won’t know, Seb.” 

“He knows everything.” 

“Not true. Not things I don’t want him to know.” 

“He lets you think he doesn’t know things you don’t want him to know,” Sebastian corrected. “You’re not like him, and you haven’t worked for him like I have. You don’t know how geniuses work, Anabelle. He _will _know.”__

They’d looked at each other and something in her broke. She went very abruptly from a desperate want to a violent need. 

“Please, Seb, _please,”_ she said, and her last plead was a gasp. She pawed at his shirt, too frenzied to try and unbutton it properly. With all of the self-control he didn’t have (he was the _man,_ god dammit, he wasn’t supposed to resist this!), he took her tiny wrists in his hand and kept them there. 

She cried out and burrowed her head against his neck, sobbing. He couldn’t speak. He was pretending not to want her, despite what she must have felt pressing against her, and if he spoke the spell would be broken and he would _need,_ need too badly to do anything other than succumb. 

“It hurts,” she whispered, mouth hot against his skin. “It _hurts.”_

She wiggled and he reached to keep her still. And holy hell, it would have been so easy. It would have been easy to unzip his trousers and slip into her, into the deep heat and wetness and bliss. 

Instead he hung his head back and growled. The growl turned into a roar of frustration, echoing through the flat. 

“Stop _moving,”_ he commanded. “Fuck, Anabelle, stop it.” 

Seeing his pain, – sheer, physical pain – she did. 

“We could…” she said. 

“No,” he whispered, the words strained in his throat, which pulsed with its need to be touched, kissed, bitten until it bled. “We can’t. Just stay like this, Anabelle. Just stay like this.” 

They remained on the floor, her in his lap, motionless, scared that any sudden movement, any extra skin contact, would push them over the brink. He imagined doing every animalistic action he wanted to do, hearing her moan and watching her move beautifully against him. All the while he stayed tensely still, every muscle in his body tight and ready to unspring. It took a dizzying amount of energy to remain as he was, fists clenched, heart pounding, eyes closed. Every place where Anabelle’s flesh pressed against his, he burned. He burned with such an intensity he saw flames behind his eyelids. He could feel scorch marks forming on his skin, making his flesh bubble and ooze, bleeding out onto the carpet. It wasn’t lust. It was hell. 

It’d been hell. 

“Sebastian?” Her voice comes peeping into his ears. 

“Anabelle?” How sweet to say her name again. His mouth fits around it so wonderfully. He was designed to say it. _Anabelle, Anabelle, Anabelle…_

“What have you been doing these last two weeks? With him?” She jerks her head toward the resting Sherlock. Sherlock’s temperature has dropped, due to the pills she got down his throat. She put something on his sore, too, but she said it wouldn’t help, not really. She said she can’t help Sherlock until he wakes up. 

“I dunno.” Sebastian shrugs. “Keeping the little guy company. He’s damn sharp. But you know that, of course…” 

“I do know that,” she acknowledges. “But only because I’ve spent the last few months with him. Only because of that.” 

This surprises Sebastian. He’d imagined her wrapped in Sherlock’s – no, the detective’s – arms every night for the past ten years. 

“I didn’t meet him until he faked his suicide,” she says, speaking carefully. She’s trying to make a point. He doesn’t want to see the point, so he turns away. 

He pretends he sees that she’s making a point but is innocently misinterpreting it. He says, “Right. So I got a few months with you, and he got a few months, too. We’re even, then.” 

He knows she’s trying to say this: _I didn’t leave you for him._ But that doesn’t make sense, because why the fuck else would she have left? 

She sighs. “No one’s keeping score, Sebastian.” 

“You keep score,” he says. Or at least she did, once. 

She kept score in their routine café downtown, where all the waiters pretended to know French, and Sebastian would come and order in impeccable French. His waiter would be confused, uncomprehending, until Sebastian repeated his words in English. Then the flustered waiter would leave and Anabelle would smile and say, “One point for Sebastian. Zero points for waiter.” And it would make him happy. 

Or at poetry readings in Paris, when some Parisian metrosexual would be behind a microphone reciting Henri Michaux, and he’d stumble on a line. Sebastian would pull Anabelle close to him, so that she would have slid off of her flimsy chair if it weren’t for his arms around her. He’d whisper in her ear, her hair getting in his mouth, and he’d finish the poem in perfect French. She’d laugh, all flushed, and say, “One point for Sebastian. Zero points for Parisian.” And it would make him happy. 

She kept score in a meeting room, with Jim Moriarty at the head of a long table and Sebastian standing behind him. Terrorists were all around the table, with the exception of Anabelle Madder, who looked entirely out of place. Because Sebastian stood behind Jim, Jim couldn’t see him, and had likely forgotten he was even there. Sebastian could keep his protective eyes on Anabelle the entire time; Jim’s safety be damned. 

But something broke Sebastian’s focus, Jim’s words cutting into Sebastian’s head midsentence: “ – you know how I love to watch. I am such a _voyeuse – ”_

_“Voyeur,”_ Sebastian corrected automatically. 

Jim stiffened in his seat. “Sorry, Moran?” He left his stupid nicknames – dog, Bashy, moron – for when his clients weren’t around. 

“A voyeur, sir. You’re a voyeur,” Sebastian said, not showing his fear because Jim would kill him if he showed fear around Jim’s clients. 

“Ah, of course,” Jim said, sounding calm in a way that promised later punishment. The meeting went on smoothly, except for when Sebastian caught Anabelle’s eye. She smiled, and that smile said, _One point for Sebastian. Zero points for Jim._ That smile soothed Sebastian’s terror. 

Right now Anabelle isn’t smiling. She looks vaguely confused, and says, “I keep score?” 

It’s obvious from her tone of voice that she has no idea what he’s talking about. That hurts, horribly, because it’s just as he always predicted it would be – he knew she’d forget everything about their relationship and he’d be left to remember it all, alone and pathetic. 

“Never mind,” he says, hoping she’ll let it go and won’t make him reveal how much their silly moments meant to him, when clearly they weren’t worth remembering for her. 

“What are you talking about?” She sounds curious. She’s hurting him, he’s bleeding, but she doesn’t mean to, doesn’t know she’s doing it. 

“Do you remember?” he says. “Do you remember anything about…” 

About what, exactly? It was scarcely a relationship they had. They’d never slept together. They’d never even kissed, not really, not without him being terrified that Jim would find them. 

The first time Sebastian had ever seen Ms. Anabelle Madder, Jim had forbidden him to hurt her. Sebastian had known then that there was something special about her. Adelbert Gruner was visiting Moriarty’s mansion for the first time, and Jim wanted Sebastian to keep Anabelle out of Gruner’s sight. To _protect_ her from Gruner. It’d been the first time, ever, that Jim had told Sebastian to protect anyone. 

Later, when Jim saw that her protection was just as important to Sebastian as it was to Jim, he forbid Sebastian from touching her. That’d been agony. 

“Ten years is a long time,” Anabelle says. “It gives someone – say, me – a long time to get really bitter. A little furious, maybe.” 

Imagining Anabelle angry is nearly impossible, but her face leaves no doubt that she’s serious. 

“And ten years is ample time for me to have wiped out all of my memories involving a certain person – say, you. Except the memories that hurt the most. Maybe the only memories I have involving you are the ones where you were very concerned about _making him happy.”_

Sebastian catches her meaning. The first time he’d seen her, he’d walked into Jim Moriarty’s office to find both her and Jim sitting at Jim's table. They'd been waiting for Gruner. It was extremely rare for Jim to invite a client into his home, but Gruner had been a very special client. 

“You, uh, texted me, boss?” Sebastian had asked. 

“I, uh, did, moron,” Jim had said. “Take Ms. Madder out of the house for the day, will you? Hurt her and you’re dead. Let Gruner catch so much as a glimpse of her and you’re dead.” He issued very sincere death threats with a casual flick of his wrist. “Off with you, now. Chop chop.” 

“Ms. Madder, boss?” Sebastian had asked. 

Jim had rolled his eyes. “Do you see a woman in this room, dog?” 

“Yes, boss.” 

“Do you see _another_ woman in this room?” 

“No, boss.” 

“Then proceed.” When Jim snapped his finger, Sebastian approached Anabelle without hesitation. He wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her over his back, ignoring her protestations and feeble fist-poundings as he carried her down the hall. Back then, her most powerful punches had felt vaguely like a back massage. 

Once they were out of the mansion, he’d let her down. 

“Sorry I manhandled you,” he’d hurried to say. “It makes Mr. Moriarty happy when I manhandle people. I wouldn’t have otherwise.” 

“And you like making Mr. Moriarty happy, do you?” she’d asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow. Sebastian had been used to receiving quips about his sexuality, but his jaw had still tightened. He’d responded stiffly, “Everyone likes making Mr. Moriarty happy, if they know what’s good for them.” 

Sebastian looks at Anabelle now, and part of him is glad that she at least remembers their first meeting. He says, “Well, you may not recall, but I was concerned about making you happy, too.” 

“Were you? No, I don’t recall. I actually remember you doing a lot of things to make me pretty miserable.” 

Feeling like he’s received a punch to the gut, Sebastian says, “Like what?” 

* * * * 

Anabelle recalls one particular night in this very room. Not much has changed in this living room, except that it’s gotten dirtier. The carpet has gone from gray to black and the couch is in an even more pitiful state than it’d been before. She’d been on that couch, in the memory she recalls. 

“I’ll tell him I’m going to Paris and bringing you for protection,” she’d said. 

“He’ll call bullshit,” Sebastian had answered immediately. He’d been on his back, on the floor beside her, looking at the ceiling. It’d been dark and most of him had been cast in shadow. 

“Then we won’t tell him where we’re going and we’ll just go,” she said. Jim was leaving for the Ukraine on business for three months, and Anabelle fully intended to take advantage of the opportunity. 

“He’d find us,” Sebastian said. 

“Seb, he won’t even notice we’re gone. He’ll be _busy,”_ Anabelle said. She wanted to tell him, so badly, that she was clever enough to convince Jim she was still in London. She wanted him to know she was clever enough to fool Jim. 

Jim had told her, when she’d first come to London, “If anyone asks, you’re my Japanese-English interpreter. My one sniper, Gromov, is besotted enough with me to kill for me, and I do believe she’d kill _you_ if she knew I consider you to be almost my intellectual equal.” 

Seeing as Anabelle and Jim had just come to London after a month of aggressively battling each other’s wits in Berkeley, and seeing as how Anabelle had thoroughly defeated and fooled Jim until their final day in the States, to be called ‘almost’ his intellectual equal was a little rich. 

Jim had continued, “And my other sniper, Sebastian 'Moron,' hates geniuses. _Hates_ them. Which is super cute, really, but he’d probably kill you if he knew that you can solve calculus problems in your head and he can’t. So don’t tell anyone.” 

Months passed, and still she kept the secret. Sebastian knew of her language skills and nothing more. 

“We could at least reserve a hotel room,” she said, “in case you change your mind.” 

“Anabelle, you don’t _get_ it,” Sebastian said. “He will figure out we left, then figure out which city in the world we left to. Then he’ll figure out our hotel.” 

“Unless we purposely mislead him,” she insisted. But he’d laughed at that. 

And so, indeed, throughout their relationship Sebastian had been only concerned with what would most please Jim. 

* * * * 

Sebastian asks, “Like what?” and Anabelle proceeds to remind him, mercilessly, of the time he’d refused to spend three months alone with her in Paris. 

“You were always terrified of him,” Anabelle says. “You viewed me as a girlfriend, maybe, but you viewed Jim as a god.” 

“Satan,” Sebastian whispers, so low she can’t hear him. He raises his voice to say, “But I was right.” 

“That Jim is a god?” Anabelle snorts, because this notion is ridiculous to her in a way it’s not to Sebastian. She doesn’t know how close she is to stumbling on the truth. 

“No,” Sebastian says. “I was right that night. About not going to Paris.” 

Christ, that night. He’d been more paranoid than he’d ever been in his life. He could hear Jim’s voice echoing in his head. Jim had been misquoting Rimbaud’s _A Season in Hell_ in Sebastian’s mind, which was ridiculous, because Jim didn’t read French poetry, or have any patience for poetry at all. 

_You are not worthy of hellfire,_ Jim had been saying to him. _Your anger is utterly stupid._

“I’ll tell him I’m going to Paris and bringing you for protection,” Anabelle was saying from the couch. Sebastian had wanted to physically restrain her from speaking, for he was so certain the booming voice inside his head was overhearing her words. Jim was listening, listening from inside Sebastian’s skull. There’d been a camera planted in his brain. 

He was aware that his thoughts weren’t right, these weren’t sane things to believe, and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were true. And believing in delusions while knowing they were delusions terrified him, paralyzed him, until he felt like he was nailed to the floor and couldn’t move. Anabelle carried on, oblivious that he was petrified. 

When Sebastian went to Moriarty’s mansion that night to drop Anabelle off, the mansion was silent. This was not unusual. Moriarty didn’t live with anyone, with the recent exception of Anabelle, and even she could not share a room with him. Sebastian always walked Anabelle to her bedroom, because he wanted to feel assured that Jim wasn’t waiting there to hurt her. Months had passed, and still Sebastian couldn’t believe that Jim had no desire to hurt someone he’d let come so close to him. 

When Sebastian returned to the front door, Jim was blocking his path. He was dressed in a gray Westwood suit, his hands behind his back. The front door was made of stained glass, and let the sunset in, illuminating Jim in a glowing, fiery orange. 

“To the basement, Moran,” Jim said. It didn’t sound like a threat. It was said pensively, implying the harmless thoughts of an inquisitive scholar. There were two factors, _the basement,_ and _Moran,_ and the way Jim said them signified a soft curiosity. What would happen if _the basement_ and _Moran_ were mixed? Just a little experiment before bed. It didn’t sound like a threat. 

It was a threat. 

Sebastian went immediately. Underground, several of Jim’s men waited for him. Jim knew that Sebastian would listen to Jim’s orders even though he could overwhelm Jim easily, but tonight Jim was taking no chances. He let bigger men chain Sebastian to the wall, and made bigger men guard the door of Sebastian’s holding cell. Somehow, Sebastian knew that this punishment – whatever it might be for – would be worse than anything he had ever received. 

Sebastian stayed chained, his arms twisted painfully upwards, for fifteen minutes before Jim came sauntering in. When he did, he started speaking immediately, as if they were two friends who were carrying on a conversation they’d had. 

“You know,” Jim said, in a soprano voice, like he was imitating a woman, “I just had the funniest little thought. I thought, _Wouldn’t it be super-duper loads of fun to go to Paris?_ I thought I’d bring my wittle Sebby-webby with me, too, for even more loads of fun! And, like, Seb, how about we don’t tell Daddy, okay? Because Daddy might try to stop us. And that would make me sad.” His smile turned upside down in an exaggerated frown. 

The high-pitched voice continued. “You know, Seb, Daddy’s gonna be gone for three looong months. And we little kitties can get up to lots of naughty things! Can’t we, Seb? Can’t we? Pweeeease, Sebby? Can’t we do such naughty things?” He paused for a moment, and then his face turned to one of mock offense. “What is that I hear?” He pressed his hand to his own ear. “Nooo? Nooo, we _can’t_ go to Paris against Daddy’s wishes? Sebby! Why are you always such a good little boy?” Jim pouted. 

He knew. There was a camera in Sebastian’s brain, and Jim _knew._

In that moment, Sebastian cracked. Insanity devoured him, and what had once been a simile – Jim is like the devil – turned all at once into a reality he was sure of – Jim _is_ the devil. He is not Satan-like, he _is_ Satan, with all of the omnipotence of God, and Sebastian is in Hell. 

“It’s so funny to watch you.” Jim’s voice became deep like usual, and he carried on, oblivious to the fact that Sebastian had utterly lost it. “You try oh-sooo hard to be such an obedient little doggy. But you just can’t be. You just can’t. You’re an _animal._ You’ve made your best attempt to stay away from Madder, but your best attempt is pathetic.” His voice was scathing, and yet in a moment turned soothing. He crooned, leaning into Sebastian’s ear, “Don’t worry anymore, Bashy. Daddy’s going to take care of it. Daddy has a solution.” His voice became cutting once more. “You are _never_ going to see Anabelle Madder again. You are dead to her.” 

‘You are dead to her.’ The phrase was, or should have been, ‘she is dead to you.’ But Jim couldn’t say that. For some reason, he couldn’t talk about the possibility of her death, and so he improvised. Sebastian noticed this curious detail, and it brought him back to reality. 

“Don’t hurt her,” he said, voice level. He tried to make it sound like a command, even though the thought of commanding Satan was laughable. 

Jim stumbled back almost as if Sebastian had pushed him, which, with his limbs securely chained to the wall, was impossible. Jim’s eyes became too bright and immediately Sebastian knew Jim would make him regret what he’d just said. 

“Don’t hurt her?” Jim whispered. “Don’t hurt her?” He stepped back, repeating himself. “Don’t hurt her?” He kept saying it, like a madman, while walking backwards out of the cell. As soon as he was out of the room, he stopped speaking, and Sebastian saw the shadow of a guard as the guard closed the steel door. He heard Jim’s laughter just as the door sealed shut. Then there was darkness. 

Strangely, that was the worst part of it. Being chained in that darkness, unable to do anything, as he imagined that two floors above Jim was doing something unspeakable to Anabelle. Jim’s best weapon against Sebastian was Sebastian’s own mind. And he used that weapon, used it for two hours. When he came back he brought the blowtorch. 

Ten years later, Sebastian pulls up his T-shirt to show Anabelle his scars. His entire torso is marred by destroyed tissue, all ugly shades of browns and black. Anabelle absorbs the sight, and spares him the grimaces of disgust he had expected. She only says, “I’m sorry. I…I thought he had just locked you up, that night. I hadn’t realized he hurt you. I didn’t know.” Then she tears her eyes from his scars and looks up at his face. “You didn’t tell me.” 

He opens his mouth to respond, but she interrupts, “No – you didn’t just not tell me. You deliberately hid that from me. Sebastian. Sebastian, I was – I was _right there._ I was right there and _you didn’t tell me.”_

She means later that night. She’d gotten into his holding cell, somehow. She must have said something to the guard that made him leave. She’d come and unchained Sebastian, and in the darkness she’d been unable to see his mutilated flesh, or even the way he collapsed as soon as no steel held him to the wall. 

She’d been going on and on about how she was leaving, they were leaving, and he had to come with her. He’d hardly been in any state to listen. He’d felt physical and psychological agony, and was convinced that somehow Jim was able to hear everything she was saying, and would hurt them for it. 

“Get up.” She’d been pulling him, but was barely strong enough to lift one of his arms. 

“Anabelle, get _out_ of here.” It’d been so hard to sound authoritative, seeing as he felt pathetic and stripped of his dignity. 

“That’s what I’m trying to do. Seb, you have to come with me.” She pulled at him. “Please, Seb…” 

“I’m not leaving,” he said. “You go, but I’m not. I’ll stay. I’ll stay with him and convince him not to look for you.” He didn’t really believe he could convince Satan of doing anything, but he would try. For her. 

“I can protect us both,” she said. “I know how to hide from him. I do. Seb, really. I can keep us both safe.” 

He’d only laughed at that, because outsmarting Satan was the most foolish thing a mortal could attempt. His laughter had made her furious, and then desperate, and then broken. She’d left crying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. 

He never saw her again. 

Until today. 

“You’re right,” Sebastian says. “I didn’t tell you. I knew it would just make you more determined to make me go with you.” He’s not interested in discussing that particular night, however, so he says, “And obviously you’re aware of what Moriarty told me afterwards.” 

Anabelle nods. “I found out later.” 

“He told me you left for _him.”_ Sebastian nudges his head toward the couch. “You left because you’d fallen in love with the detective.” 

* * * * 

For all that Jim Moriarty boasted to value creativity above all else, that particular lie was not especially inventive. Because while Anabelle certainly hadn’t loved the detective – she hadn’t _known_ him, back then – Jim had. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes as soon as he discovered him. That is, in love in whatever way a psychopath can be in love. 

“I will destroy him,” Jim declared one day. “Utterly.” 

“Who?” Anabelle had been used to Jim randomly announcing the names of all the people he planned to kill, back then, but there was something different in his voice. It contained a certain spark – a lascivious purr – that Anabelle hadn’t heard since Jim was sixteen. It sounded like _arousal._

“I have no idea. I don’t even know his name, but I intend to find it out,” Jim hummed. “He’s a man, only a man. But trying to be _moooore.”_ Jim cackled. “He’s clever, Anabelle, awfully clever, but not cleverer than me. Because he has a heart, see. It makes him all _feely_ and weak and… Mmm… It’s like he’s all _exposed.”_ Jim squirmed and moaned. He added, “He’s not as clever as me, but he’s cleverer than you. Because although he has a heart, he recognizes it as a weakness. You’re still yet to grasp that, aren’t you?” 

Now Anabelle looks at the figure on the couch, the poor man who’d been subjected to Jim’s twisted mimicry of affection, and she feels a burst of rage. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be unconscious in this flat, and this flat wouldn’t be dark and broken like the man who lives in it, if it weren’t for Jim. If it weren’t for Jim, Sherlock would still be solving crimes with his friends in London. Without Jim, Sebastian would still be a sniper, unfortunately, but at least he would be his own man. After he was discharged from the army, he set up a perfectly profitable freelance. Then Jim got ahold of him, and hurt him. And if it weren’t for Jim, Luke wouldn't be missing – 

Anabelle takes a deep breath. She opens her eyes, and loosens her hands, becoming aware of her own tenseness. She breathes out her anger, letting it go. There is nothing productive about directing negative energy at a dead man. 

Sebastian’s still sitting across from her. At thirty-eight years of age, he’s still as handsome as ever. She’s surprised to find that some small part of her is still taken with him. 

“I left you once,” she says. “I left and you understood that I couldn’t return. You understood that, right?” 

Sebastian nods. “Moriarty would have hurt you if you returned.” 

“Exactly. But for me, every day, I knew that you could have come to me. You could have left him at any time and found me. I never even changed my number, Sebastian. I was waiting, every single day, for you to call. And while I realize now that it probably felt like I betrayed you when I left you, I only betrayed you once. For me, it was like you were hurting me, over and over again…” She closes her eyes once more. “I see now that I was wrong. You couldn’t have left, Sebastian. You really thought Jim was more than a man. I expected too much of you, and I’m sorry.” 

This isn’t all she has to say. She wipes her eyes of the hot tears that are beginning to form, so that she can more clearly see Sebastian. He’s now unable to look away from her. He’s looking, of course, but he’s not seeing. She’s never let him see her, and she realizes now that her simple, implicit lie has caused both of them far too much anguish. _I am Anabelle Madder, and I am not a genius._ She said that, without words, because she was afraid he wouldn’t love her if he knew. But he can’t possibly love her without knowing that part of her. And he can’t start to see the world clearly if she insists on telling an old lie. 

_I am Dr. Madder, and this entire time I’ve been clever enough to protect you. I just never told you I could._

“Sebastian,” she says. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 


	26. Nothing Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The fury upon [Moran's] face was terrible to look at." -Dr. Watson, _The Empty House_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: nonconsensual kiss.

“Sebastian,” she says. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 

Already a nervousness tugs at his gut. He knows, from the solemnity of her expression, that this is important. “What is it?” 

She swallows. “I’m not called Ms. Madder, anymore.” 

Sebastian involuntarily looks toward the sleeping detective. His voice is embarrassingly hoarse when he says, “You – you married, then?” He clears his throat. 

“Not quite. Rather, I’m called Dr. Madder, now.” 

He feels all the tension leave his body. “You finished graduate school. That’s great.” 

“Yes. I did a lot of things, after I left London.” She’s trying to get him to ask what those things were. Honestly, he’s not sure he cares, not really, as long as – 

“You didn’t get married, though?” 

“No, Sebastian.” She’s starting to sound frustrated. “I never got married. I did, however, make a computer code. I think you may find your old boss was familiar with it.” 

That takes a moment to click. Then, slack-jawed, he says, “The key code?” 

“Yes.” 

“Luke Madder made the key code,” he states numbly. 

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Anabelle says patiently. “My brother never made anything. I did, and my brother covered for me. And then – ” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” interrupts Sebastian, because it doesn’t, and he needs to prove to her how much that doesn’t make sense. “Luke Madder was the one who _stole_ the key code back. Of course he made it. He’s a genius.” 

“He’s not.” 

“I don’t believe you,” he says simply. He holds out his hands as if to say, ‘What are you going to do about it?’ He states, calmly, “You’re telling me you made the key code. That would require a lot of things, wouldn’t it?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, it would mean you’re an excellent mathematician, wouldn’t it?” 

“Oh, yes. It would.” 

“You never told me you’re a mathematician. I have never seen any evidence, whatsoever, that you even _like_ math.” 

“So you’re not going to believe me?” Part of her looks relieved. 

“I don’t believe anything without proof,” he says. 

“That sounds like an awfully smart way of thinking for a man who never thought he could go to college,” Anabelle says. Sebastian glowers. “Tell me: What would be my motivation for lying about me having made the key code?” 

Sebastian thinks. “I…I don’t know. But why would you have lied to me about _not_ making it? I mean, you never _said_ you didn’t make it, but when we were together, you told me you were an interpreter…” 

“I was actually hired as Jim Moriarty’s cryptographer. I made nearly all of the codes he ever used in his life,” she says. 

“Why wouldn’t you have told me that?” 

“Mr. Moriarty told me not to,” she responds. She looks far too calm. 

“But why would you have listened? You hated Jim. Always. I don’t understand. You, you hated…” Sebastian stops speaking. His tongue feels heavy. 

“Go on,” Anabelle urges. 

“You turned on Jim Moriarty.” His voice is disbelieving. Even as he speaks, he’s almost certain he’s wrong. _No one_ betrays Moriarty – and gets away with it, that is. But here she is, claiming to have been his cryptographer, and she’s perfectly alive, while Moriarty is perfectly dead. “You made his codes, and then…” 

“Gave them all to the British and American governments, with instructions on how to break them. Yes. When I was twenty-two, Jim Moriarty sought me out. I played his games until he trusted me, enough to give me access to any information he had. I feigned love for him until feigning it became impossible, and then – ” 

“ – You feigned love for me, too.” Sebastian’s throat feels dry. He swallows, but it burns. 

“I didn’t feign that,” she says quietly. 

“Moriarty told me it was Luke Madder,” Sebastian says. “I don’t understand. Why did he tell me the maker of the key code was Luke Madder? He told _everyone_ that. I don’t understand.” 

“I don’t know why he made it seem like it was Luke, but – ” 

“It _was_ Luke,” Sebastian says, nodding. “You’re wrong. It was Luke. Luke Madder is the genius. He made the key code.” 

“Sebastian – ” 

“He did. Of course he did.” Sebastian thinks of something, and lights up. “Of course he did! He must have! If he hadn’t, why would Jim have taken him? Of course he made the code!” 

“Mr. Moriarty took him?” Anabelle is alarmed, but Sebastian doesn’t care. His entire body is shaking. He feels like he once felt in Jim’s underground cell years ago, when his sanity cracked. Thinking of that night, he’s reminded of _Ms._ Madder’s half-formed plans to go to Paris with him. Why would she had done that? If she’d only been in London as a spy, using him, using _Jim,_ then why would she have tried to schedule a romantic vacation? Unless she had never intended on actually going. Maybe she’d known Jim was listening in on them, had known he’d find out about it and have Sebastian tortured. It was certainly a good plan to give her an excuse to leave. Yes. He’d been _tortured_ due to her awful, genius plans. 

He begins to laugh. 

“Luke Madder made the code,” he’s still saying. What he's saying and what he’s thinking contradict, and he feels like he’s tearing, like insanity is razing his brain all over again. 

“Sebastian, do you know where Mr. Moriarty took my brother?” 

“Luke Madder made the code,” Sebastian repeats, trying to steer her to the right topic. 

“Seb, Luke is missing, and I need to know – ” 

“He made the code!” 

“Luke – ” 

“GODDAMMIT, ANABELLE. TELL ME HE MADE THE CODE.” She’s talking about Luke, about Jim, about all these other men, like he doesn’t matter, like she can’t see him. His arm swings out and hits the couch. Even with Sherlock’s weight on it, the force of his punch sends the couch lurching back. Anabelle blinks at him. 

“I made the key code, Sebastian. My brother posed as the cryptographer. He gave decryption codes to the British government and claimed he made them. But you know he couldn’t have. Because it was me who was in London. I was the one collecting information. And I’m the one who made the key code, Sebastian. Now I want you to tell me,” she speaks slowly, “if you know where my brother is.” 

Sebastian glares. “If you’re so bloody smart, then figure it out. It’d be obvious even to _me.”_

“What do you mean?” Her face is blank. 

Holy Christ. She really doesn’t know about Luke Madder. He never bothered mentioning it to Sherlock, when he was giving Sherlock information, because he figured she knew. Figured everyone knew. And the fact that she doesn’t makes him laugh bitterly. Right now the only reason she’s even talking to him, why she’s in his flat, is because she wants this information. 

So he gives it to her, considering it payback for every time some fucking genius has come into his life and _meddled._

“Luke Madder stole Moriarty’s phone,” Sebastian says. “To get the code.” 

“Yes. And?” 

“No one steals from Moriarty and lives,” Sebastian says. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath. Silence. Her skin – all white. She looks like she’s been scooped out and there’s this empty sack of skin left before him. 

He grins. 

“Get out,” he says, and lurches forward. Like a great beast with his prey, he picks her up by her collar and dangles her before him. She tries to pull away, and he throws her forward. She stumbles, catching herself against the wall. 

Her eyes flicker to the couch. To the fucking detective. Even when Sebastian’s commanding her and throwing her across the room, she’s thinking about other men. Men cleverer than him. He growls, and when he speaks his words are the lowest rumble. 

“Get out _now,_ before I snap his fucking neck.” 

Her entire body freezes for a split second, then she runs. He waits until he hears his front door slam shut before turning around. Predatorily, he approaches the couch and drops down on his knees. Part of him wants, very badly, to crush the bones of the detective’s face before the detective can wake up. The other part wants to hurt the detective while the detective is conscious, and to make the detective know exactly who’s hurting him. He shakes Holmes’s shoulders gently. 

After some time, Holmes’s eyes flutter open. Sebastian is almost surprised by how genuinely worried his own voice sounds when he says, “Siger! You’re finally awake!” 

The detective groans and tries to push him away as he comes closer, but Sebastian wraps his arms firmly around Holmes, as if overwhelmed by concern. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, running his fingers tenderly across the detective’s bald head. 

The detective must be in shit shape, because he can’t be bothered to keep up his Norwegian accent. He says, weakly, “Please, I need breathing space – ” His request is cut short by a yelp as Sebastian takes Holmes’s face firmly between Sebastian’s huge hands and smacks their lips together. The detective writhes underneath him, but Sebastian dominates. He shoves his tongue so far down the detective’s throat that the detective gags, thrashing, trying to get a gasp of air and failing. Sebastian doesn’t let Holmes go until he’s satisfied that Holmes’s mouth is thoroughly coated in Sebastian’s saliva. When he’s done, he stands up and spits on the welt that marks the detective’s chest. 

“Get. Out,” he says. He tosses the detective his shirt and trousers and picks him up by his neck. Just as he did to Anabelle, he throws Holmes across the floor. Unlike Anabelle, Holmes falls to his knees and has trouble standing again. Sebastian closes his eyes, so that he can’t see the way shadows are cast in between the spaces of Sherlock’s – the detective’s – ribs. Like he hasn’t properly eaten in a long time. 

Well, he probably hasn’t. Geniuses don’t need to eat. 

There is absolutely nothing human about a genius. 

Shakily, the detective rises and makes his way as quickly as he can out of the flat. 

* * * * 

Once Sherlock’s shaky, useless limbs bring him to the doorstep, Anabelle comes dashing from across the street. 

“Are you alright?” she asks. She flings herself at him and tries wrapping her arms around him. He throws her off, perhaps too violently, because she looks surprised. 

“Don’t touch me,” he demands. “Tell me what you did.” 

“What I – what?” she says, taken aback. 

“To make him angry,” he says impatiently. He’s impatient, mostly, with himself. His mind feels all foggy, like it’s not working properly. He should be able to deduce what it was that made Sebastian furious. He can’t. 

“I told him I made the key code,” Anabelle says. “He hadn’t known I was a…genius.” 

“You’re a genius? Really? Yet you told him _that?”_ Sherlock says scathingly. “You _imbecile._ I was working towards getting him to tell me where your brother is.” 

“Maybe it’s better we don’t find out,” Anabelle says softly. 

“What? How could that be better?” 

Just then, a black car pulls up to them. It pulls up with such purpose that there is no denying it was looking for them, yet Sherlock is too unfocused to realize it’s one of Mycroft’s iconic cars until Anabelle tells him so. 

“You called my brother,” Sherlock says. 

“I wasn’t sure what Sebastian was going to do to you,” Anabelle says defensively. 

“You pissed Moran off and then _called my brother.”_ Sherlock’s tone is enough to convey the degree of his rage. 

“Sherlock,” she begins, as the black car’s driver gets out and opens the back door for them. “Mycroft has some of the best doctors in England at your home right now –” 

“221B?” Sherlock says, startled. 

“Sussex,” she says. She gets into the backseat of the car. “Sherlock, you need medical assistance. You can’t go to a hospital, so you need to go home.” 

“I’m not getting into that car,” he declares, pointing up his chin peevishly. He tries to walk away but only wobbles. 

* * * * 

Sherlock eventually got in the car – what other alternative was there, considering his current state? – and now they’re being driven out of London. 

“Sebastian didn’t hurt you?” Anabelle is saying. 

“No,” Sherlock says. He won’t look at her. He’s too furious. That’s probably why he’s lying to her, too. 

Of course, it’s not really a lie. Sebastian didn’t hurt him, after all. Just traded some saliva. Unless he has some type of disease, of course, but considering his ability to sustain such a high level of physical fitness, Sherlock finds this unlikely. Healthy saliva is 99.5% H2O. It’s like Sebastian gave him a sip of water, really. 

Which does not explain why, on top of being groggy, Sherlock feels _wrong._

He focuses on something different. He tries to look out the window and make deductions about the passersby on the pavement. 

He can’t. The car is going too quickly; he feels he can’t get a proper look at anyone. At least that’s what he tells himself. Although he can’t remember ever not being able to deduce things about passersby. Ever. 

Swallowing his rising panic, he quickly speaks up, “What are you going to do?” 

“Sorry?” 

“While I’m doing,” he face wrinkles up, “ _nothing,_ what will you be doing?” 

“I’m going after Adelbert Gruner,” she says. 

“And do you know where Adelbert Gruner _is?”_ Sherlock asks. 

“He’s in Paris…” she says slowly. 

“Wrong,” he says. She sighs. 

“Sherlock, you’re acting childish. If you know more than I do, just tell me,” she says. 

“Sebastian told me a lot while I stayed with him,” Sherlock says. “A lot about Gruner. You thought Gruner and Moran went to trial together. You were wrong. Gruner sent someone else in his place, someone who pretended to be him, and the British government’s been tracking the wrong man ever since. Adelbert Gruner has kept his location secret from my _brother,_ which I rather thought was impossible. Even Moriarty never accomplished that.” 

Talking about work diverts him from the strangeness he’s feeling. Although why he feels strange, he can’t say. It was just a kiss. It was just two bodies. 

“Gruner is here in England, near Kingston,” Sherlock says. “Moran told me about a lodge that Gruner has there. It’s like the heart of his criminal empire. One he’d been building with Moriarty’s help.” 

“Just tell me the exact address,” Anabelle says. “I’m sure Mycroft’s people and I can handle it.” 

“Mycroft’s never met you. He’s not just going to give you his people without me,” Sherlock says, which is entirely true. 

Sherlock has formulated a response for every point she could possibly make. Instead of her saying anything, though, a silence follows. He knows that she knows he’s formed logical counterarguments, and they’re both running through their unspoken debate in their heads. In the end, he wins. 

“So you want to go to Kingston,” she says. 

“I will go to Kingston,” he corrects. 

“Sherlock – ” she begins, and stops herself. She starts again. “Siger. Sigerson Bøler.” 

“Yes?” 

“You’ll have to tell me everything you’ve found out about Adelbert Gruner.” 

“Of course. I can describe the precise security that surrounds his home right now. Tell me when to begin.” 

Anabelle leans forward and tells the driver to stop taking them towards Sussex, but to instead take them to Kingston. She sends several text messages on her mobile, which Sherlock deduces must be intended for Mycroft, and then she says, “You’ll come in handy, of course.” 

“I usually do,” he says. 

“Yes. But especially, this time.” 

“Oh? Why’s that?” 

“Because,” she says, taking a deep breath. For the first time, he notices that her hands are trembling. “Right now, I think, I need you.” 


	27. The Collector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If your man is more dangerous than the late Moriarty, or than the living Colonel Sebastian Moran, then he is indeed worth meeting." -Sherlock Holmes, The Illustrious Client

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically my reinvention of The Illustrious Client, so please know that many of the words are not my own, but ACD's. 
> 
> Also: I'm so sorry it took this long to update. I've just been incredibly busy with applying to colleges, SATs, etc. I really hope it won't take nearly as long to write ch. 28.

Adelbert Gruner lives in a house on the edge of Kingston. Due to his unquestionably seedy connections with Moriarty, Gruner has amassed a significant fortune, and the house he lives in is not a small one. Known as the Vernon Lodge, the building is one which immediately impresses upon Anabelle a sense of opulence and solidity. The houses's structure is adorned with turrets, and neatly groomed shrubs mark either side of the lawn. Anabelle must work hard to help guide Sherlock’s shaky, weak legs down the long, winding driveway that leads to the front door. 

The door's bronze knocker depicts a Chinese dragon. Anabelle and Sherlock have based their entire plan on information that Sebastian gave Sherlock, which Sherlock in turn gave to Anabelle on their ride here. Sebastian told Sherlock that Adelbert Gruner is a collector of two things: Chinese artifacts, and women. Gruner is supposedly Europe's most successful sex trafficker and, in addition, Europe's most successful polygamist. The knocker confirms Sebastian's claim about the Chinese artifacts. When Anabelle knocks and a young, attractive woman answers the door, Sebastian's second claim seems confirmed as well. 

The woman’s eyes scan Sherlock, taking in his bald head and clammy skin, and then flicker to Anabelle. She says, “May I help you?” 

“That depends.” Anabelle smiles. “Is this the home of Adelbert Gruner?” 

“To whom am I speaking?” The woman does not answer the question. 

“My name is Dr. Barton, and this is my colleague, Mr. Bøler,” Anabelle says, making an alias on the spot. She reaches into her jean pocket, in which she keeps a wallet, and says, “Now, I do believe I have my card in here somewhere…” 

Anabelle searches in vain for Dr. Barton’s nonexistent card, and the woman grows impatient. She says, “What business do you have with Mr. Gruner, Dr. Barton?” 

“Ah! Yes! Business!” Anabelle looks back up, slipping her wallet away. “Well, it’s not business so much as two hobbyists hoping to be indulged. We have been looking everywhere for copies of Mr. Gruner’s book on Ming pottery, but it seems to be out of print. It’s unfortunate, as I’ve heard it’s precisely the book I’d need to properly put a price on some egg-shell Ming pottery I’ve recently come to possess. I was hoping that, perhaps, the book’s author would be able to supply me with his own elucidating literature?” 

Sherlock gives Anabelle a look that says: ‘You’re so scripted you’re making me sick.’ Despite this, as soon as Anabelle mentions Gruner’s book, all suspicion slips away from the pretty woman’s face. She says, “Yes, of course he could. Please, come in.” 

Anabelle and Sherlock are led down a hall, where they’re given over to another young and attractive woman. This second woman leads them farther into the house. They pass numerous, open-doored rooms which contain an unusual number of young, attractive women, all of whom are working on laptops or phones. Sebastian described to Sherlock how none of them are held against their will, and all operate Gruner's trafficking for him, but Anabelle assumes they've been brainwashed in some way. 

Eventually, Anabelle and Sherlock are taken into a capacious, well-lit study. In it is Adelbert Gruner. 

When the study door is opened, Gruner is standing at the open front of a glass case which rests between the windows and contains part of his Chinese collection. Anabelle is quick to note that, along with the cases lining the room, there are also numerous paintings on the walls – all originals – and the marble bust of a man on Gruner’s desk. 

“Guests?” Gruner says, turning toward them. In his hand he holds a small brown vase. 

“Dr. Barton and Mr. Bøler, sir,” the woman says. Anabelle does not miss the blush that strikes the woman’s fair cheeks when Gruner’s eyes scan over her. “They are here to inquire about your book.” 

“Very well,” says Gruner. “Thank you, Elizabeth.” 

Taking this as a dismissal, Elizabeth leaves, closing the door behind her. No time passes before Gruner speaks. 

“Do you like her?” 

Anabelle misinterprets these words, strangely. Due to the light tone of his voice, she thinks he means the vase. When his eyes shift to the door she realizes he’d been speaking of Elizabeth. 

“I was looking over my little treasures today and wondering whether I could really afford to add to them,” Gruner continues. He turns on his shoes and walks languorously to his desk. “There is such risk, these days, in this part of the world, in each addition I make to my collection. And yet I find myself itching to add more. Not to imply,” he interrupts himself sharply, “that I care only for quantity. No, of course not. Only the most pleasing ones get added to my collection. Quality is what I care about most, really. But of course you would know that. Collectors, you must be? Like me.” 

He seats himself behind his desk and, although this would probably be an appropriate time to smile, his lips remain hard and straight. He is very nearly albino in appearance: his hair is whiter than blonde, and sleek, pushed away from pale eyes so light they are nearly devoid of color. His face is sharp-featured and pointed, as slender as his body, and somehow manages to be handsome despite its severity in shape and colorlessness. It is, in fact, made all the more striking by these qualities; he possesses a lucent glow, radiating despite his pallor and set off only by those cruel, unmoving lips. 

“We are,” Sherlock says, speaking up. If Gruner finds his accent amusing, he shows no signs of it. “We were hoping you had spare copies of your out-of-print book. We would be willing to pay a price for them, if you’d like.” 

“I’d like,” Gruner says simply, and he reaches below his desk. “Yes, I have the last copies right here.” He pulls up a metal lockbox and sets it on the desk. “Please, take a seat, both of you.” 

Anabelle and Sherlock step closer to him, mere feet away when they rest in two large, imposing leather armchairs. Retrieving a ring of keys – all golden and well-adorned – from his pocket, Gruner picks one and slips it into the keyhole of the box. He takes a meticulously long time to open it and retrieve one of the books. While she’s waiting, Anabelle eyes the artwork all around them. Above and behind Gruner is the largest painting of the room, depicting a light-haired young boy and an older, dark-haired man. The two males are mostly cast in shadow, their bodies hidden. Anabelle at first thinks it must represent some mythological Greeks, as it hints, faintly, at a homoerotic nature. But she is unable draw her attention away from the older man’s eyes: they’re large, dark, and contain a depth that goes far deeper than the canvas. 

It isn’t until Gruner snaps his box shut again that Anabelle realizes, abruptly, that the older man is James Moriarty. 

Which means the younger man must be Adelbert Gruner. She can see a resemblance now, although the painting must have been made several years ago, when Gruner was in his early twenties. 

“Are you alright, Dr. Barton? You look a little sick,” Gruner speaks up. “I could get one of my women to bring in a drink, if you need something.” 

“I’m alright,” Anabelle says quickly, realizing, even as she speaks, that the bust situated to Gruner’s right is actually a marble version Moriarty’s head. The orb-like shape of the eyes are unmistakable. 

“Right then. In that case, here it is,” Gruner says. “Isn’t it beautiful?” He gestures toward his book. “I had only hardbacks produced, of course. And all of the pages have been lined with real gold. Gorgeous craftsmanship. I lost money, printing these, if you can believe that. And yet it was worth it.” He strokes the spine of the book and says, “It’s fine, don’t you think?” 

“Very fine,” Sherlock agrees. “Very fine indeed.” 

“Of course,” Gruner continues, “you have not told me how you found out about the existence of my book. You are not aware, perhaps, that I destroyed every copy of my book in existence except these few I have here? I have put an enormous effort into keeping my book away from the public eye, so how could you have possibly heard of it?” 

Sherlock and Anabelle share of quick glance, silently agreeing that Sherlock will do the talking. Anabelle is the worst liar, and already Gruner’s questions are making her uncomfortable. 

“We are devoted collectors of Chinese antiques,” Sherlock says. “We recently came into possession of some real Ming-dynasty egg-shell pottery that needs to be put at its proper price, and we'd like your book to price it.” 

“You could not get an expert to price it? Whole businesses are based off of pricing antiques. Why not contact one of them?” Gruner interrupts. 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock says, with a convincingly careless air. “We were merely interested in reading something of yours that could be of value, but if you’re not interested in selling a copy, then my friend and I might as well be leav – ” 

“Nonsense, you can’t be leaving already! You’ve only just arrived!” Gruner gets up and grabs his book, flipping to a random page. As he does so, he appears to stroll – but is actually rushing – to his door, which he blocks. He keeps his back to it as he reads aloud, “‘The Terracotta Army of Qin Shi Huang is comprised of nearly 125 clay soldiers. These soldiers were exported from China and can now be found in the Austrian Museum of Fine Arts – ’” He slams the book shut, looking up. Sherlock and Anabelle have both turned in their chairs to look at him, but haven’t risen. “Well then, _collectors._ Does anything about that sound off to you?” 

Sherlock says nothing, looking blank, but Anabelle says, “There were over 8,000 soldiers found in the Terracotta Army, not 125. Did you destroy most of the copies of your book because it contains mistakes? You could always make a second edition…” 

Keeping the affability in his eyes, he says, “Me? Make mistakes? Please, don’t insult me. There were over 8,000 soldiers, 130 chariots, 520 horses, and 150 cavalry horses. No truly passionate connoisseur could fumble with such elementary knowledge.” He raises his eyebrows and stares at both of them, as if expecting some type of response. Not knowing what he wants, both remain silent. 

“Oh, come on!” He lets a few more seconds pass before saying, “I might as well tell you, seeing as you’re not going to be leaving here… The book is a code, a way of guiding my clients to my underground areas of operation. Surely any true spy of Mycroft Holmes should be able to figure that out? You must have known this, or else you wouldn’t have wanted my book at all. I knew it was only a matter of time before the British government realized that I sent an impostor to fill in for me at my trials, and began to look for the real me.” He walks toward them now, the book at his side. “The Terracotta Army, of course, is code for the largest brothel in my possession. When I wrote this book, the brothel was located in Austria, hence 'the Austrian Museum of Fine Arts.' However, ever since Jim…” He looks away. “Since Moriarty’s…suicide, I’ve had to relocate. This book is now worthless to me and my clients. I’ve had to find other ways of conveying information to my clients. Not that I’d tell you about _that,_ of course…” 

Gruner’s head suddenly snaps in Anabelle’s direction, as if he’s seeing her for the first time. She feels the urge to run as he comes toward her, his eyes pale and inhuman, his mouth rigid. She forces herself not to move. 

“You’re not denying that you’re spies, which is practically a confession,” Gruner says. “I can’t let you leave now, of course. It’s a shame they sent a woman.” Gruner lifts his arm. “I have such a hard time hurting women. I very nearly want to spare you. Dr. Barton, was it? Is that your real name?” 

Anabelle nods. 

“And what’s your first name, dear?” 

“Hilary,” she says. 

“Hilary Barton,” he repeats, and his voice makes the name sound luxuriant. Anabelle imagines he’s tempted many women by reinventing their names in this way. His arm reaches as he continues to speak, close to stroking her cheek. “After I get rid of this pesky male spy, Hilary, I may just keep you. You’d be a beautiful addition to my collection – ” 

Sherlock lurches himself out of his seat just before Gruner comes into contact with Anabelle, and his sheer weight pins Gruner to the floor. 

He falls easily, as Sherlock has the element of surprise, but quickly recomposes himself. 

“Dirty British spy!” he shouts, and he manages to catch Sherlock’s wrists in both of his hands. Under normal circumstances, Anabelle thinks, Sherlock’s superior height and mass would be able to keep Gruner down, but in his current state Sherlock is far too weak to fight back for any prolonged period of time. Gruner grabs him and, sensing his weakness, pushes Sherlock back with all of the force he can muster. Sherlock falls, slamming his head on the leg of Anabelle’s chair. Anabelle scrambles out of her seat just as Sherlock slumps, unconscious. A trickle of blood leaks from the back of his head. 

Gruner, now on his knees, launches forward, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s neck, clearly planning to strangle the unconscious man to death. 

Anabelle, standing, takes the top of Gruner’s head in her hands – grabbing onto his hair – and shoves it into her outstretched knee. His grip loosens as he barks in pain, momentarily dazed, and Anabelle takes advantage of this by delivering a punch to his face. 

He falls back, clattering to the floor again, and snarls. All gentle mannerisms have been wiped from his features, replaced by rage. He threatens, “I won’t hurt you if you cooperate.” 

Anabelle chuckles at this. 

“Sorry for laughing,” she says. “It’s just amusing to see you trying to play a hand with no cards in it, Gruner. You’re decidedly outmatched.” 

It’s true: Anabelle looms over him, stronger, faster, and better trained in fighting. Gruner’s body has been spoiled, sculpted for aesthetics. He looks up, resting a hand over his bleeding lip. Through the blood he manages to say, “So you think. But if you know anything about me, and what I can do, you’ll be a good girl and get out of this study right now. Go tell one of my women you’ve decided you want to join my collection. I promise no one will hurt you.” 

Anabelle ignores his words and pulls out her cell phone, thanking her own clever sense for having thought to put Mycroft on speed dial. She lets the phone ring on speaker. Both Gruner and her can hear that no one is answering, but no one has to. 

“This is Mycroft Holmes’s number,” Anabelle tells him. “From this call he’ll have already traced this house, Gruner. He’ll be on his way soon. And I do mean _him,_ not his men. This house is getting a personal visit from Mycroft Holmes in less than ten minutes. Touch either one of us and you’re a dead man.” 

Gruner stares at her for a moment, squinting like he can’t see her clearly. Finally he says, “You’re Anabelle Madder, aren’t you? You’re Jim’s woman, the one I was never allowed to see.” 

Anabelle thinks of years ago, of Moriarty summoning Sebastian to take her forcibly out of his meeting rooms. All because of Adelbert Gruner, the one client of Moriarty’s that she had to be hidden away from. 

Gruner blinks and rises to his feet, rubbing his jaw. He says, “You used to work for Jim. Now you're a spy for the government? There’s no escaping Mycroft Holmes, is there? So, of course, if you’ll excuse me.” 

Gruner steps around Anabelle and goes behind his desk, pulling out a drawer and searching for something. Anabelle stares at him, and Moriarty’s bust on the desk, and all the paintings of Moriarty’s face. 

“You must miss him,” Anabelle says. “I can’t imagine your business has been booming since Moriarty shot himself.” 

The change in Gruner’s face is so abrupt it’s unnerving: he goes from rage to something even darker, more insane. His features twist, ugly and vile, his lips parting to reveal a glint of teeth. In just a second, though, he manages to subdue himself, like he’s slipping on a mask. Looking normal again, he pulls out something from the drawer. It looks like a square, black remote control. 

“What’s that?” Anabelle says. 

“A detonator,” Gruner answers coolly. “I told you: I don’t make mistakes. And I’ve had time to prepare. I wired the entire house with explosives months ago, just in case.” He taps his fine fingers against the metal box on his desk. “These books will turn to ashes once I activate this.” He strokes the detonator. “In fact, everything in this house will turn to ashes once I activate this. Any evidence of my crimes, really, which will leave the British government, once again, with nothing to hold against me. Not my women, not my books, and not your friend.” He nods at Sherlock’s body. “And you, of course, will blow up, too, if you don’t leave soon enough. Which you won’t, if you attempt to save him.” 

Tucking the detonator into his pocket, he swerves around her and heads toward the door. Anabelle thinks fast. 

“Wait,” she says. When Gruner doesn’t so much as pause, already almost out the door, she shouts the only thing that might make him stop: “JIM MORIARTY.” 

“What of him?” Gruner snaps, turning back. 

“He wanted you to take over his business, didn’t he?” she asks. Gruner doesn’t respond, but she’s confident she’s right. “You were partners. He must have promised you at least _part_ of his empire after he died. But you don’t have it. Why not?” 

Gruner doesn’t answer her, but he’s still listening, so she goes on, “Do you know why he never let you meet me?” 

“Of course I know,” he responds. 

“Why?” 

“He thought I couldn’t keep my hands off of women. He seemed to think he loved you.” His voice is bitter when he says this, his jealousy laid out raw and bare. Anabelle is extremely thankful that he doesn't recognize Sigerson as Sherlock Holmes, as she can't imagine how jealous he must be of the man Moriarty shot himself for. 

“Wrong,” she says. “He never loved anyone, Gruner. He needed me.” 

“For what? Hurry up. Don’t think you can keep me here until Holmes comes. If he arrives before I leave, I’ll wait until he’s within radius and blow us all up.” She can’t tell if Gruner is bluffing, but she takes his word. She rushes to respond, “Moriarty was a hoarder of information. When I knew him, he had files on every important crime in Europe. He knew every criminal, every government official, and kept information on _everyone._ You’re supposed to have that information, aren’t you? To run his empire now that he’s gone? But he never gave it to you. Maybe he never had time,” she suggests, while thinking _probably he had plenty of time, but never planned to give you anything,_ “but his files are still out there. They still exist.” 

“His laptops – all of them – are over there.” Gruner points to a portion of blank wall behind his desk. “They’re in my inner study.” 

“But you can’t access anything on them?” Anabelle says, already knowing she’s right. If Gruner could have accessed them, he would be king of the underworld right now, and there’d be no way in hell he’d blow any of the computers up. 

“I can’t,” Gruner says. “What of it? You think the British government can? I assure you, you’re wrong.” 

“No, they can’t,” Anabelle says. “But I can.” 

Gruner glares at her. “What are you talking about?” 

“I don’t expect you to believe me when I tell you I made the Sasaki Code, Mr. Gruner, and that I was once Moriarty’s cryptographer. I don’t expect you to believe me when I tell you I know how to access all of his files. But if I tell you that I _am_ the creator of the Sasaki Code, and I _do_ know how to access all of his files, and if I tell you that I _might_ help you, if you don’t blow up this house, I expect you’ll take my offer. You’ll take the chance, won’t you? Any chance, at all, of reaching Moriarty’s files?” 

Gruner doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, and doesn’t say a word. He stares at her, absolute disbelief on his face. And yet she knows what it’s like to cling to slivers of hope, to cling, desperately, to those who are dead… 

“It would almost be like bringing him back to life,” she says softly. “Almost.” 

A moment passes. Then: 

“My car’s in the driveway. I’m bringing the detonator with me. You get in the car, I blindfold you, and we drive. If you make a fuss I’m blowing up everyone in this house.” 

“Deal,” Anabelle says. “And if you do anything to hurt my friend, or any of the women you keep, then I can assure you that you will never see a scrap of Moriarty’s information.” 

He growls, but turns around. “Come along, then. And hurry.” 

He stalks into the hall, and Anabelle takes a quick moment to look at Sherlock. 

“Stay safe, Siger. Mycroft’s coming,” she whispers. She leaves the room. 


	28. Where It Started, Where It Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of warning: There's torture in this. But I wouldn't describe it as 'graphic.' It was going to be graphic, originally, but I'm a pansy and Halloween is already over.

John knows it seems a little desperate, but he can’t help it. Sigerson had been messaging him nearly twice a day – usually at odd hours of the night – and then his messages abruptly stopped. It’s been two days and he hasn’t received a word from Sigerson. Perhaps Sigerson simply forgot about him. After all, what is John, now, except some grief-driven veteran who spends a concerning amount of time talking to online strangers about his dead friend? 

Nevertheless, John decides to send Sigerson another message rather than wait for Sigerson to respond to his last one. He types: 

_Hey Sigerson,_

_From your last message it sounds like you’ve made another friend. I get what you mean, that Sebastian’s not like Luke at all, but still likable. I’ve been getting a lot closer to the D.I., Greg Lestrade, who was put on forced leave after the whole fall mess, but he’s no Sherlock. I mean, Greg and I were always mates, but he’s not like Sherlock at all. He’s more like me. Which isn’t what I’m looking for. Sebastian sounds like a nice man, though. Is he a romantic interest of yours, or…? (Which is fine, by the way.)_

_I don’t know if I told you this, but Sherlock had a brother. Mycroft. Mycroft took away my gun after Sherlock jumped. I was furious at the time – I’m still furious at him, but I’ll tell you why in some other email – but anyway, now I think it’s a good thing. It’s just like when I got back from the army. I feel so…jumpy, skittish. Last night Mike’s kids got home late and I heard them making noises in the living room. I went out there in the dark, steady and ready to kill. My gun was in my hands, I was prepared to shoot at whatever shadows made a sound. At least, until one of Mike’s sons switched the lamp on, and I saw it wasn’t my gun in my hands, it was just the remote control that’d been on my bedside table. I have nightmares, sometimes. I mean, besides the fall-related ones I told you about. Now I’m mainly dreaming about all the people and things I probably would have shot if I still had my gun. Like I’ll dream about what if I actually killed Mike’s kids and stuff. It’s awful. Mike’s phone rang yesterday and I jumped, snatched it from his hands, and threw it at a wall. When he suggested I seek help I threw a fit and swore at him, in front of his wife… Good old Mike. Poor, poor Mike._

_I’ve stopped going to therapy. It wasn’t helping. My therapist was too focused on me grieving properly, healthily, moving on. I don’t want to move on. Sigerson, I don’t fucking want to move on. I’m fine right here._

_I’m bloody fine._

  
 _-John_

He presses ‘send’ without rereading his message. 

* * * * 

Sherlock is disoriented, in a strange purgatory between consciousness and unconsciousness, but he can process enough to know that he’s overdosed on cocaine. 

This has happened before, and he’s disappointed in himself for making the same mistake twice. He’d been certain, after the last time, that he’d be more careful. He hadn’t thought he’d once again end up where he is now: on a bed, wrapped up in rough sheets, the incessant beeping of the EKG driving him mad, the IVs in his arms feeling sore and scratchy. 

He wonders why he tried cocaine again. He’s having trouble remembering what he’d been doing, before he overdosed. Did he skip more of his uni classes to buy another batch of drugs? Worry flares in his chest at that thought; if he keeps skipping classes, he might be unable to get his degree. And if he can’t get a degree, then he’ll have to go live with Mycroft until he figures things out. 

He groans aloud at the thought, and suddenly hears a voice above him. 

“He’s awake, doctor.” 

“He’s not ready. His body’s still processing the first dose.” 

“Alright.” He feels a cold hand touching his arm, readjusting the IV. He wants to tell the hand to stop, stop – it hurts – he doesn’t like that – stop it – but he can’t seem to part his jaw. The words sound only as a low moan, and then, after seconds pass, the world becomes black once more. 

* * * * 

It’s been three days. And three days, Anabelle thinks, is not such a long time. It’s long enough to know that she can survive this without breaking, but not so long that she can’t remember the last time she saw Sherlock. Remembering him, for some reason, feels important. 

She knows it’s been three days because during the day, her cell is heated to such an extreme that she can only get an adequate amount of oxygen by laying on her stomach and sticking her nose against the crack beneath the door. Without that crack she’d likely be dead. 

In the night, dry, frigid air is blown through the ventilators on the ceiling of her cell. The temperature drops and all of her muscles shiver – convulse – in an effort to keep warm, until she's so sore that exhaustion scrapes away at her. At night she becomes so numb she's practically paralyzed. When she awakes, the cell is hot like a desert again, and she has to gasp for air. 

When they'd left Vernon Lodge, Adelbert Gruner had driven her to a familiar white mansion on the outskirts of London, one she hadn’t seen in ten years. There he'd shown her the scraps that Moriarty had allowed him to inherit: the mansion itself, along with twenty or so guards. 

She’d been escorted into the mansion by three guards, the tip of a gun pressing into her back. She’d been led to the mansion’s den, the exact room where Jim had taken drugs at sixteen, and there Gruner had sat across from her. 

“Don’t think I’m an idiot,” he’d told her. “I’m aware that the Vernon Lodge has been evacuated. Besides that, my detonator is out of range; I’m too far away to activate any bombs. With your friends safe and my bombs useless, your incentive to break into Jim’s files is rather diminished, isn’t it?” 

“Quite,” Anabelle had agreed. 

“That will need correcting,” he’d said. Slowly, he had raised his arm and snapped his finger. The gesture had been disturbingly reminiscent of Moriarty, and for the first time Anabelle had felt a flicker of fear. 

At the motion, the two men on either side of Anabelle grabbed her shoulders, holding her in place. Their strength had been such that she hadn’t a hope of overpowering them; they’d been nearly as large as Sebastian and, unlike Sebastian, they had no qualms about hurting her. 

“Good, very good,” Gruner had said, when he’d seen Anabelle’s hesitance. “You realize, then, that I am now in a position to inflict serious damage on you. Is this an incentive for you, Dr. Madder? Or do you need a demonstration?” 

Apparently, she’d needed a demonstration. She’d stayed silent in her seat and hadn’t moved. 

“Excellent,” she recalls Gruner saying. She can still picture the way crinkles had formed around his eyes; his lips stayed as straight and hard as ever, but in that moment it’d been like the top portion of his face had been smiling. “It looks like the girl needs a demonstration! Well, then, men. I think cell three will be a perfect place to situate our guest.” 

She’d known even when she left Vernon Lodge that it would come to this. Maybe she’d known it would come to this her whole life. But she’d always thought it would be a different man, a different psychopath, giving the orders for her torture. 

Maybe it is better this way. 

Moriarty, gone. Defeated. Sherlock Holmes safe with his brother. And Luke… 

Without Luke, she has nothing to cling to. The Professor she thinks about, certainly, but she knows he’ll survive without her. He has a home in New York, a career, other people who love him. Sherlock, too, has his own life. She’d merely been a temporary intruder, someone he'll soon forget about. In the end, it's always been Luke and Anabelle. 

She’s never been tortured before this, but she’s been in dangerous positions before. She’s had to stay up over many consecutive nights to break ciphers that, once broken, saved lives. She’s had to trick Somalian warlords, outsmart North Korean spies. Anabelle Madder knows danger. She knows the energy it takes to get out alive, knows that often it depends on nothing more than sheer determination. That determination, for her, has always stemmed from the thought of returning home – wherever home might be – with Luke again. 

But Luke has been dead for months. Home is where Luke is, and without Luke… 

There is nowhere to go but here. 

There isn’t a chance in hell she’s giving Gruner the codes to access Moriarty’s files. Without those files, Gruner will crash and burn as a criminal. Without those codes, Moriarty’s empire will fall. That’s all that matters to Anabelle now. 

She hears footsteps coming down the stairs outside and scurries away from the door. Two of Gruner’s guards enter. They’re clad in black uniforms, booted, and one is carrying a wooden chair. Anabelle never thought about a chair being used as a torture instrument, but that was prior to the session she’d been put through yesterday. 

On the first day, Gruner had sent her to the cells and four men had proceeded to beat her bloody for two hours. They seemed to consider it less of a job and more of an opportunity to blow off some steam. She’d kneeled away, trying to protect her stomach, breasts, and head while coming up several arms short. She’d been left, bruised and bleeding, until a male nurse came down several hours later. He’d poured some type of disinfectant all over her open wounds and then smacked bandages over them, giving her the bare minimum protection from infections. 

Perhaps Gruner had ordered her beatings on day one because he’d thought she would break right away. When she stayed silent, he changed his game plan: On day two, a chair was brought down into the cell and placed in the center of the room. She’d been directed to sit on it, feet flat on the chair, back straight, and her arms in the air on either side of her. She was ordered to remain unmoving, arms held by her own strength, for hours. Sweat formed from her forehead and neck, dripping into her eyes, and her breathing became labored. She’d felt sore, lightheaded, ready to pass out. When she finally collapsed, she received a beating in reprimand and was then forced, bloodied and bruised, to seat herself on the chair and start all over again. That’d lasted nearly seventeen hours yesterday. When her guards finally left, taking the chair with them, she’d passed out before they’d been able to deliver her food. 

Now, on an empty stomach, she pushes herself up and sits in the chair almost as soon as they place it on the ground. She notices the men aren’t wearing shirts; the heat, at least, is as detrimental to them as it is to her. 

“Arms in the air,” one of them orders. She tries to look at them closely, as Sherlock would. The man who speaks has blonde hair, like Sebastian, although the similarities end there: his skin is thick and pockmarked, his lips protruding oddly from his face. No matter how closely she looks, she can’t find anything human in him, anything alive, which distresses her. Their relationship seems to be one of mutual dehumanization: he looks at her like she’s a piece of meat, nothing more than a vaguely interesting toy to entertain him during the day. 

She raises her arms immediately, although they’re still sore from the day before. The malodorous scent of perspiration and fungi swells from her underarms; the three of them are all strangely numbed, and no one seems to notice. 

She has promised herself she won’t say anything. She keeps her lips sealed, as she’s afraid that, if she parted them to make one harmless comment, all the information needed to access Moriarty’s files would come streaming out instead. This is unlikely, but she’s not going to risk it. If she _were_ willing to speak, however, she’d be asking them why they haven’t asked her any questions yet. 

That’s how torture goes, right? People are hurt until the information comes pouring from them? It’s always possible that the men see no point in asking her questions because it’s quite clear what Gruner wants from her, but it’s been two days and no one seems to be getting restless. It is very likely that Gruner doesn’t believe she created the Sasaki Code, doesn’t believe she’d be able to hack into Moriarty’s computers, and is hurting her just for the pleasure of hurting her. 

Her arms shake, involuntarily, and although she immediately pushes to keep them in place, the second man – freckled, brown-haired, more slender than the other – grabs her by the back of the neck and throws her onto the floor. 

The first beating of the day begins, the heels of hard boots kicking mercilessly, until blood gushes from the back of her head, getting caught in her oily strands of hair. She’s kicked in the gut and clenches her stomach reflexively, curling up. 

While it’s happening, she focuses on her breathing. On the rhythm of it, on the way it just barely decreases some of her pain, on the steady sound of it. She tries to block out everything else, and times her breathing with the mantra she needs, every so often, in order to stay silent. 

_There is nowhere to go but here._

Luke is dead. The Sasaki Code is destroyed. Sherlock is safe. 

_There is nowhere to go but here._

She will die here. And that’s okay. 

* * * * 

When Sherlock wakes again, a day later, he feels heavy, blurry-eyed, and queasy, but most of the confusion is gone. He opens his eyes and immediately registers that he's alone, without Anabelle, and most certainly not in a hospital room. He's in his childhood bedroom. 

Looking around, he sees that his puerile possessions have all been removed during the years he’s spent away from this place. It’s the walls that give the room away: he remembers the watermark in the westernmost corner of the ceiling, specific cracks in the walls and chips in the abhorrent wallpaper that have been there his entire life. The smell of the house, he bets, would be familiar, if the scent of IVs and hospital cotton weren’t clogging his nostrils. 

He looks down at the tubes sprouting from his arms and, without thinking through what he’s about to do next, he rips off the tape of the IVs and takes out his own catheters. Droplets of blood form on either of his arms, but he sighs in relief, closing his eyes for a moment before forcing himself out of bed. His feet have been put in some loose-fitting hospital socks. These keep his bare skin from touching the cold, hardwood flooring of the hallway when he leaves the room. 

He doesn’t want to be in his bedroom. There is only one room in this house that has ever meant anything to him, and it’s downstairs. He makes his way through the house, avoiding walking past rooms in which he hears voices – he recognizes the voice of the nurse who last gave him his general anesthesia. Finally, he reaches the end of the hall he’s been looking for. It’s not nearly as long as he remembers it, and it now takes only a few strides for him to make his way down it and enter the room he hasn’t seen since he was fourteen. 

His father’s room hasn’t changed. 

Like the man was during life, his room is stuck in time. One of the maids must come in often to clean, because no healthy coating of dust marks a thing. It fills Sherlock with an eeriness. It’s as if nothing moves here, nothing changes. He closes the door behind him, softly, and feels immediately removed from all of life. 

He hasn’t allowed himself to feel this way since he was a child. In the past years he’s been distorted, drugged, enraged, confused, lonely – but never, since after his father’s death, has he been _removed._ Sherlock Holmes lives absolutely in the present. 

He sinks into his father’s old armchair. The last time he’d sat in it, he’d been on his father’s lap, watching as his father translated some Ancient Greek to Latin on the desk before them. He looks at the desk now and finds, uncannily, that one of his father’s handwritten, hand-bound volumes is sitting on the desk. Untouched and in pristine condition. He reaches for it, breath drawn in, wondering how accurately he recalls his father’s handwriting. His hands are shaking and he opens the cover. The front page is filled with cramped calligraphy, handwritten with his father’s quill over twenty years ago. The ink has scarcely faded. 

Sherlock knew nothing about graphology when he was younger, but now there are key words that flash across his mind as he instinctively analyzes his father’s handwriting: _male, astute, withdrawn, meticulous._ He finds his eyes scrolling down the page. He can’t read a word of it. He doesn’t know Latin, anymore – he spent years purposefully deleting that information from his mind. But now he forces himself to read each meaningless word, every letter strangely precious to him. 

He’s not sure how much time passes before he begins to drift off, but it happens: the book can scarcely hold his attention forever, and he's already tired to begin with. The sunlight coming in from the garden outside, warming him, only adds to his drowsiness, until he finds himself resting his head, softly, against the desk… 

  
It was the day after Christmas and Mycroft was ruining everything again. He was so angry when Sherlock rejected all of his Christmas gifts for the third year in a row, but he didn’t understand. Christmas wasn’t a _real_ holiday. Saturnalia was the only holiday which Sherlock and Pater were interested in celebrating. 

Mycroft was giving Pater another one of his annoying lectures, and Pater said Sherlock wasn’t allowed in his study right now. He waited outside the door with his arms crossed, pouting. Stupid Mycroft. 

Sherlock’s head perked up. The voices from inside the study were getting louder. Or, specifically, Mycroft was starting to shout while Pater’s voice remained a low, startled murmur. Sherlock stood still for a moment, trying to make out Mycroft’s shouted words. There was a loud crashing sound, and Sherlock began to pound on the door. Mycroft was throwing things at Pater. 

The pounding of his fists finally brought an exasperated Mycroft to the door. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at his brother and ran past him, rushing to push Mycroft into the hall and shut the door in his face. 

As it turned out, Mycroft hadn’t thrown anything at Pater. Pater had been holding a glass pot of ink, and he must have spilled it due to Mycroft’s shouting. He stood in the center of the room, shattered glass and black ink pooling around his shoes. His hands were shaking. 

“Pater!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Nolite audire Mycroft.” 

Pater looked down at him, eyes sad, and he whispered, “Amor est vitae essentia.” And then, with a great effort, Pater opened his mouth and spoke four English words very, very softly: “Go to bed, Sherlock.” 

  
Sherlock sits up and gasps. He doesn’t have any time to recover before he hears a voice behind him say, “Of course you're here. You really can be predictable, you know.” 

He clenches his fists and looks down into his father’s book, refusing to turn around and face Mycroft. He spits, “Get out of here, Mycroft.” 

“I could say the same to you, brother. You need to get back to bed.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“You don’t even know what’s wrong with you. Would you care to speak to the doctor?” From the tone of Mycroft’s voice Sherlock can perfectly imagine Mycroft’s condescending smile. Or frown. Smiles and frowns are the same with Mycroft. 

“I’m surprised you can even bare to be in here,” Sherlock says lightly, casually flipping through a page of the book as if he’s paying more attention to it than to his brother. “It doesn’t weigh on your conscience at all, Mycroft? Not even a little?” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft begins warningly. 

“You never even think about it, do you? It doesn’t bother you?” He keeps his tone conversational. This tone proves to be extremely false on him, because neither of the Holmes brothers do _conversational._

“Sherlock, enough of this.” 

“You’ve always claimed it wasn’t deliberate, but even now, standing in his room, you show so little remorse that it makes one wonder – ” 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft slams his umbrella on the floor. Both brothers stop to listen to the resounding thud. After that, Sherlock hears only the heavy sound of Mycroft breathing. He always did get out of breath so easily. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock, so I suggest you hold your tongue.” 

“I remember perfectly well,” Sherlock retorts. 

“Remember what, precisely?” 

“The day after Christmas, Mycroft.” Now, Sherlock’s voice dips dangerously, and he forcibly removes his own hand from his father’s book, for fear that the tenseness of his grip will end up ripping the pages. 

“We only had a conversation.” 

“No conversation with you is just a conversation,” Sherlock says cuttingly. 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, you were a _child._ You can hardly remember – ” 

“ONE TALK WITH YOU AND HE OFFED HIMSELF.” Sherlock raises his voice but stays very, very still. 

“Quiet down,” Mycroft hisses. Before Sherlock can shout some more in retort, Mycroft adds, “Or else Mummy will hear.” 

There is a pause. As if sensing that he could say nothing to make his presence any more well-received, Mycroft steps out of the room and shuts the door behind him. Sherlock calms down, eventually, and continues reading the book until he drifts off once more. 

When he awakes, he finds himself back in his bedroom, the IVs in his arms again. 

* * * * 

Anabelle’s too exhausted to rise the next morning. When her cell door slams open, she doesn't have the energy to look up. Her skin is slicked with sweat, and rashes have formed on her arms; the itching kept her up last night when she should have been too drained to keep conscious. It isn’t until she blinks and sees Adelbert Gruner staring down at her that she manages to push herself off the floor. 

It’s dark, in the cell, but a dim light comes from outside, illuminating Gruner’s features. For the first time, he’s genuinely smiling. The grin is slanted and not a little bit insane. Fear curdles in Anabelle’s stomach, so strong she thinks she might throw up, but she forces herself to stay under control. 

_There is nowhere to go but here,_ she reminds herself. 

“Doctor,” Gruner greets her, too cheerily. She has noticed that all of the guards refer to her only as, “Doctor” or “Dr. Madder.” She now suspects this is due to an order from Gruner; her name is always said mockingly, in this cell. Rather than degrading her through insults, he’s slowly turning her own name into a source of shame. 

She looks up but says nothing. 

“I have a treat for you today,” he says. When she doesn’t respond, he continues, “It’s one I just _had_ to deliver myself.” He snaps his finger, and a man walks in and places Anabelle’s favorite chair in the center of the room. “Well, go on. Take a seat.” 

Regarding his sinister features and the sadistic, crazed glint in his eyes, she nearly considers refusing. This is the man who believes James Moriarty – his lifelong love – was in love with her. This man wants her dead, undoubtedly. But not unless her death is slow, and has her screaming. 

Slowly, she rises. She meets Gruner’s eyes as she does so, never blinking, and she tells herself one more time, _There is nowhere to go but here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
> According to Google Translate, “Nolite audire Mycroft," means "Don't listen to Mycroft."
> 
> “Amor est vitae essentia," means "Love is the essence of life." This isn't a quote from a Roman, but rather from a modern man, Robert B. Mackay. It's sort of like Pater uses 'modern' Latin as a transition to speaking English.


	29. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I....I have an update? Indeed!
> 
> I am so, so sorry it's taken this long. It wasn't due to lack of interest, but I've been constantly busy with applying to colleges, testing, yada yada. I finally had a free day and decided to write! I hope this doesn't disappoint anyone.

Adelbert snaps his fingers again, and a second man – the one with the pockmarked face – enters the room. He’s holding a silver tray. From her low point on the chair, Anabelle can’t see what’s on it. She focuses on keeping her breathing steady. 

“I can’t imagine what Jim thought was so appealing about you,” Gruner sneers. “But I do wonder if it was this. If this,” he gestures to the entirety of the cell, “is what he anticipated. There is a distinct pleasure, Dr. Madder, in standing before a once-pretty girl and watching as her body is disfigured in all manner of unusual ways. Witnessing a girl experience more pain than she has ever experienced before is rather like taking a girl’s virginity. It’s the sort of thing connoisseurs like myself live for. I am sure James knew how to appreciate this.” 

She, too, feels that this is what Moriarty must have been planning all along. It is only coincidence that he did not live to see it, and so his crueler, dumber ally must take care of it instead. 

“Restrain her,” Gruner says. There is a rope in a darkened corner of the cell, and it’s now used to tie her arms behind her back, unbalancing her. Her ankles are bound to the legs of the stool. The rope burns her skin, and Gruner’s guard ties it so tightly that she can feel her blood pumping in her arms as her circulation is cut off. 

She stares resolutely forward, unblinking even as Gruner snaps his fingers yet again. The pockmarked man lets his tray clatter to the floor, holding a silver object in his hand. In the same moment, the second man steps forward, taking Anabelle’s head into his palms. He forces her jaw open as she instinctively pulls away, and the pockmarked man shoves the silver object into her mouth. It’s cold and sharp, setting her gums bleeding immediately, and with a choking swallow she realizes it’s some sort of dental dam. It forces her mouth open, and her motion is now so restricted that she feels trapped, caged. She inhales deeply, and lets her eyes flicker to the silver tray on the floor. 

On the tray is an assortment of dentistry equipment. She registers this small fact, and then immediately looks back up. She closes her eyes, heart pounding in her ears, and hears a low chuckle some feet away. Gruner. 

A large hand comes near her face, and something sharp and metal scrapes along her teeth. Her entire body shivers. Deep breath. Deep breath. The tool nears the back of her mouth. Deep breath. Deep breath. There is nowhere to go but here. There is nowhere – 

The needle-thin point of the tool jabs into the root of her molar. 

She screams and arches her back, thrashing wildly. Hands behind her stop her from falling with the stool, and someone’s shouting, and hitting her, but she can’t focus on anything, can’t stop screaming – 

A white-hot, agonizing sensation explodes from her molar and tears down her throat, up her ear, piercing all the nerves in her body. The tool begins to move and, impossibly, she hears it crushing her tooth into tiny pieces. Small, hard pieces of broken teeth litter her tongue like splintered bone. She has to focus on keeping her tongue flat so that she doesn’t choke on them. She squeezes herself, hot tears and cold sweat dripping down her face. Vaguely she registers laughter, although it sounds very far away. Everything, in fact, is fading. The orange light seeping in from the door is dimming to black. The pain is still as sharp, but it’s as if she feels it from a distance, as if she’s floating, out of her body, and the only thing to anchor her is the very light sound of… 

An inhaled breath. Eyes open. The apartment comes into view. They’re in Singapore right now, her and Luke, although Luke is out grocery shopping at the moment. She’s meditating in the living room, in front of a ceiling to floor window. Sunlight gushes in, reflecting off the clean, white walls. Yards below her the city of Singapore bustles, hundreds of people unaware of what’s just happened. 

The Sasaki Code is complete. It hasn’t been implemented yet, of course – her computer’s in the other room. But it’s all here, in her head, and that’s basically the same thing. Tomorrow is her twenty-eighth birthday, and the code is finally finished. 

She dials a number without hesitation. A less lucid mind would ponder over the problem awhile – to tell Moriarty, or not to tell Moriarty – but she sees that there’s only one solution, and it’s to call him right now and offer the code to him. What is hers won’t be hers for long; people will find out, steal it. She can’t keep it safe forever. It’s better for it to be his than someone else’s. She knows how to keep tabs on him, which she couldn’t say for any other criminal or rogue government. And she knows he would never give the code to anyone else. 

The phone is answered after less than half a ring. A soft, Irish voice: “Hello?” 

She does not ask why he has the same number after so many years. Does not suggest that, maybe, it’s because he’s been waiting for precisely this call. She says, “I have something for you.” 

“Drop it off.” She can hear typing in the background; he sounds distracted, busy, aloof. He hasn’t spoken to her for ten years but he’s not about to exchange a petty _How have you been?_

“Where are you?” she asks. 

“Get it to me in two days,” he says, speaking over her. The incessant sound of typing abruptly ceases. He’s hung up. She listens to the silence on the other end of the phone for a moment, bleak and dead, and looks out at the terrific view before her. Singapore is a tableau of rushing pedestrians and clashing colors, towering skyscrapers squeezed together and, in the distance, a strip of azure water reflecting a million glittering shards of sunlight. It’s bright, in motion, and so close she could join it if she wanted to. 

She wonders if Moriarty’s current view is half as grand. 

* * * * 

When Sherlock opens his eyes, a flash of gold in his peripheral vision catches his attention. He tracks its source and looks, dazedly, at the reflective gold for a moment, his foggy head trying to figure out what it is. It’s not a coin – it’s not round enough, quite. It’s slim and long, curved like a… Like a ring. It’s a ring wrapped around a finger. 

“Sherlock? How are you feeling?” 

Childishly, Sherlock closes his eyes and slows his breath dramatically, pretending to sleep even though his brother has obviously just seen him wake up. 

“For Christ’s sake, Sherlock,” Mycroft huffs. “Must you always be so puerile?” 

Sherlock opens his eyes again and glares. “Handsome ring,” he says. 

“Sorry? Are you feverish?” Mycroft says. He reaches for Sherlock’s forehead, but Sherlock grabs his hand instead, holding it out. 

“Look at you, Mycroft,” Sherlock says. Mycroft stands before him calmly, saying nothing, although both brothers know why the ring caught Sherlock’s attention. 

For years, Mycroft’s gold ring has rested on his ring finger. Right now, however, it’s on his pinky finger, squeezing the skin tightly. Mycroft looks at it with a frown, and Sherlock looks at him. 

“Oh, _brother,”_ Sherlock says cruelly. “It appears that you’ve acquired one – no, two – no, sorry, _three_ – additional chins in my absence.” 

“So good to see that you can still count,” Mycroft says pleasantly. 

“What happened to the diet? I haven’t seen you so fat since you got your first government job,” Sherlock sneers. 

“That was during your uni days, as I recall,” Mycroft says, although Sherlock doesn’t see the significance of this. “Not to imply that you’re looking any better yourself. Your head is exceptionally bumpy, did you know? I can’t say baldness suits you.” 

Sherlock touches the top of his bare head distractedly. He retorts, “It’s part of a _disguise,_ brother. Obviously. Anabelle designed it for me, and it’s kept me perfectly well-hidden.” He blinks. “Where is Anabelle?” 

Mycroft’s sickeningly artificial smile disappears, and some hint of genuine emotion crosses his face, although it’s an emotion Sherlock can’t identify. “Gone, it seems. She wasn’t at Gruner’s mansion when I came.” 

“You didn’t try to find her?” Sherlock’s voice is sharp with accusation. 

“There was no sign of a struggle. It seems she saved your life and, subsequently, considered her work with you over.” Mycroft’s voice is strangely gentle. “She’s fine, Sherlock, but she’s done with you.” 

“She wouldn’t leave,” Sherlock says, trying to sit up. Vertigo hits him and he slams back down into his pillows. “Anabelle was my partner, and she wouldn’t leave without telling me – ” 

“Sherlock, slow down. You’re sick right now. You must prioritize your health over a woman who left you – ” 

“Shut _up,_ Mycroft. You don’t understand. She wouldn’t just _leave –”_

“But all the evidence suggests otherwise, Sherlock, so I really suggest you begin focusing on the right questions. Why don’t you start by asking me what’s wrong with you?” 

* * * * 

When Anabelle returns to consciousness, she first becomes aware of _taste._ She has a mouthful of blood, copper and salty and stinging. She can’t see, but after several seconds she hears voices all around her. She can’t remember who they are, but she opens her mouth to ask for help. Instead she gurgles wordlessly, coughing as blood gushes from her mouth. She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Her thoughts are basic and primitive, a stream of: _thirsty, hot, thirsty, thirsty._

When her vision returns to her, she sees Adelbert looming over her, his lips twisted into a self-satisfied smile. She’s feverish, irrational, can’t remember who he is, but his face frightens her. She needs water, her throat is burning, and when she tries to get up she feels ropes pulling at her skin. Adelbert sees her struggling against her restraints and snarls; he lashes out, slapping the side of her face. In an explosion of pain, everything blacks out again. 

She returns to a better time, a better place, a place miraculously free of pain. 

She leaves Luke in Singapore when she tracks Jim down. Jim is in London, as always, although she’s surprised to find him working in an office building. The building is stale and corporate, the portrait of something soulless, and when she opens the door to his particular office he doesn’t even glance at her. 

“Morning,” she says brightly. “I brought you coffee, thought we could chat.” 

His attention is entirely fixed on his computer and his own typing. His fingers move with the rapid dexterity of someone who’s spent most of his life in front of computer screens. 

“Leave it on the desk,” he mutters. He adds, “The code, I mean. Keep the coffee.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “You look tired, you could use some caffeine.” 

“I’m enormously busy,” he says. 

“I’ve just given you the key to the world,” she says. 

“Thanks.” He’s still typing. 

She takes a moment, in the doorway, to look at him. He has deep circles underneath his eyes and as he types he mutters to himself. His suit is impeccable but it’s the only impeccable thing about him. Hunched over as he is, she can see that he’s formed a bit of a paunch, and there are unflattering whiskers around his small mouth in the places he neglected to shave. 

Anabelle walks into the room and takes a seat before the desk. “You’re not looking so good, James.” 

Moriarty does stop typing, finally. He looks at her with the same sad, wide eyes she remembers, although they’re even emptier now. He says, “This tie alone, sweetie, cost me half a thousand pounds.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says. She takes the briefcase she brought and puts it on the desk. 

His eyes flicker nearly imperceptibly toward the briefcase; there is the faintest twitch of his hand. He’s about to check its contents, not quite believing her, but then thinks better of it. 

“Do you know what it is?” she prompts. “I mean, obviously you can take an accurate guess. But do you really _know?”_

“Get out, Anabelle,” he says mildly. His hands won’t not stop moving. 

“I can give you some lessons on how to use it. If you’d like the help.” 

He sighs and turns to her, frowning. “Have you always been so bad at picking up cues? I don’t remember that, but the memory can distort things so beautifully, can’t it? You’re being annoying, Anabelle. I’m _dismissing_ you, see?” He shows her this by returning once more to his work. 

She doesn’t budge. 

“You’re mad at me,” she says. She doesn’t bother pausing because she knows he won’t respond or give any signs of having heard her. “You didn’t want me to just give it to you. You wanted to fight me for it, chase me for it. You wanted a game. I didn’t play along.” 

He doesn’t respond, except in all the ways he is responding: his pasty skin, the impeccability of his suit that does nothing to hide the fact that he’s aging poorly, his inability to look her in the eye, to acknowledge that he wants more than anything to have coffee with her. 

“You’re making me sad,” she says suddenly. “I can’t even look at you, you’re – you’re making me so sad – ” 

“SHUT UP. SHUT. UP.” Moriarty stands and slams his fist. “You _stupid bitch_ – shut up! You're an idiot, okay? You are _dumb._ I’ve been using you since you were _twelve years old._ I picked you out as the kid with the most potential and stuck around you, kept track of you, so that one day –” He waves his hands in the air, comically. “– you could give me a little present like this.” He points to the briefcase. “But I never _cared,_ Anabelle. We’re not old friends. We’re not even old enemies. I don’t care about you. _At all._ Get. Out.” 

Anabelle doesn’t flinch. 

A small part of her wants to tell him that, all along, she knew this would happen. That when she was in her early twenties she leaked plenty of Moriarty’s information to various governments, postponing the progression of his criminal empire. She would love to point out that right now, by giving him the Sasaki Code, she is controlling _exactly how much power Moriarty has_ by giving him access to information on her terms. 

She’d love to tell him that. Instead she says, “Well then. I’ll just leave the coffee, in case you change your mind.” 

She leaves the room, closing the door behind her. Before it clicks shut, she hears the clacking of James’s keyboard again. 

* * * * 

Sherlock blinks. “I really don’t care about what’s wrong with me, Mycroft. I care about finding Anabelle. I’m leaving, right now, and _don’t_ try to stop me.” 

“By all means, go,” Mycroft says, gesturing to the door. “I would tell you to call me once you feel yourself lapsing into a coma, but I’m rather afraid you will have forgotten my number by then. Or, indeed, what numbers are.” 

Sherlock, who’d been trying, once again, to sit up, now pauses. His upper lip twitches. “What are you talking about?” 

“It’s trypanosomasis, Sherlock. You have sleeping sickness.” 

He blinks. These words have no significance to him, as he’s never thought of ‘tropical diseases’ as being important information to absorb. 

“It’s a parasitic disease, Sherlock, and you will die if you don’t finish your treatment. How you’ve gone this far without realizing something was horribly awry is beyond me.” 

“I’ve only been tired, sometimes,” Sherlock says. 

“Is that a joke? There’s a gaping _welt_ on your chest from where a fly bit you. You never questioned how it got there?” 

“A what…?” Sherlock peers down his hospital gown and realizes that what Mycroft said is true. It’s now ugly and purple, roughly the size of his fist. 

“As much as you’d like to be, Sherlock, you’re not a _phantom._ You have a body to take care of. Why can’t you notice it as you notice everything else?” Mycroft raises a condescending eyebrow. 

“How long will treatment take?” Sherlock asks. 

“Twelve more days,” Mycroft says. 

“That’s too long,” he immediately says. “I’m a legal adult, you can’t keep me against my will. I need to find – ” 

“A coma, Sherlock. Weren’t you listening? Likely I should add _inevitable death,_ if you don’t receive treatment quickly – ” 

“I don’t care, Mycroft,” Sherlock says angrily. “Anabelle wouldn’t have just _left._ I was with her for months. She likes to see jobs through. She wouldn’t have left unless she had to, unless something went wrong. She needs me – ” 

“Right now _you_ need you. You are currently in the first phase of the disease. You’ve been experiencing reversed sleep cycle – insomnia during the night, and extreme fatigue during the day. You’ve had swollen nymph nodes and rashes, neither of which you’ve noticed. In fact, likely the only symptom that has been _interesting_ enough to catch the attention of Sherlock Holmes is the disruptions in your sleep cycle, as they undoubtedly had an effect on your deductions. Without treatment, however, you will enter the second phase of the disease in just weeks. This is a neurological phase, Sherlock. The parasite will enter your nervous system and you’ll begin by suffering from confusion. Eventually, your memory and reasoning skills will fail you. You’ll experience violent mood swings, convulsions, and will eventually enter a coma. Only after all of that has happened – and you have lost every ounce of your deductive reasoning, every scrap of your dignity – will you die. Would you still like to leave, brother?” Mycroft flashes him a smile and gestures again to the door. “Because you’re right: I can’t force you to stay.” 

Mycroft had probably been expecting a retort from his little brother, but Sherlock only stares, wide-eyed, in a state of disbelief. Finally, he speaks. 

“Twelve days of treatment.” 

“Yes,” Mycroft says. 

“And then…?” 

“You will return to normal.” 

“There won’t be any permanent damage?” Sherlock asks. 

“None at all.” 

Sherlock leans his head back against the pillow. He takes a deep breath. “I’d like to speak to the doctor.” 

* * * * 

It’s amazing, how disastrous the damage of one orifice can be. Anabelle estimates that at least three of her teeth have been taken out, including two of her wisdom teeth. She cannot see herself, but the gentlest of touches on her cheeks tell her that her face is obscenely swollen, alien and lumpy. Blood drips down her throat, stirring nausea in her empty stomach. Her unbearable thirst was quenched by a bucketful of lukewarm water provided by Adelbert’s men just before they left her, but drinking induced nearly unbearable pain. Hard bread has been left for her as well, but her mouth is so swollen that she’s unable to part her lips enough to allow any food in, let alone to chew. 

She lies down and, eventually, weeps. No tears come out, as her body seems to know it must fight to conserve water, but the sounds are just the same. She’s left in darkness, and no one is coming. 

* * * * 

_Hey, Sigerson,_

_You haven’t responded since my last message. You’re probably busy with a fashion project or something, even though you haven’t updated your blog, either. I hope you’re fine. I just needed to talk to someone, and I can’t talk to anyone here. Not even Greg wants to hear about it._

_Mike kicked me out of his house. I knew that was going to happen, eventually, so now I’m staying in a hotel. I’m still working, so I can afford it if I manage things well. I won’t have to move in with Harry or anything. (She’s my sister. We’re not that close.) That’s not what I wanted to talk about, though._

_Yesterday I was walking back from Tesco to my hotel when I caught sight of a newspaper headline. I’ve been avoiding newspapers ever since the fall business, but this one caught my attention. The frontline read: “FAKE DETECTIVE REPORTED ALIVE BUT DYING.” You can probably Google it; it claims some nurse was recently hired to treat my friend, Sherlock Holmes, who’s alive in an undisclosed location. I’ve tried calling Sherlock’s old number, of course. I’ve messaged him on his website. I’ve done all of it._

_It’s just a tabloid. I should probably forget it. But why would someone say that? Why would someone say he’s alive?_

_-John_

* * * * 

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since Sherlock spoke to the doctor, signed several papers, and began to receive his first intravenous dose of pentamidine. He’s spent long hours sleeping, in a reluctant state of acceptance, when finally a voice stirs him awake. 

“Inexcusable!” From outside his door, in the hallway, Sherlock can hear the sound of Mycroft’s umbrella slamming against the floor. “This is a heinous breach of confidentiality – ” 

A softer voice – several, softer voices – begin to speak at once, but Mycroft interrupts them. His voice is loud with a rage Sherlock has only ever heard Mycroft use on him. “It _is_ a federal offense, actually. You’ve put my brother at an unforgivable risk. This type of nonprofessional behavior is – ” 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He’s so sleepy right now that his usually curious mind, which would be demanding answers if he felt better, surrenders the need to know. He blocks out the sound, adjusts his IVs for comfort, and goes back to sleep. 

* * * * 

The flat is dark, and deep, and it feels like miles to the front door. Sebastian sits against the back of the couch in the blackness, curled up as if he’s afraid to take up too much space. He rests his eyes, filled with silence, his breath the only sound stirring the air. He hasn’t moved much in days. He can’t remember the last time he ate. His stomach gurgles with the need for nourishment, but he refuses to yield and go to the kitchen. His bladder is full, but he won’t meet that need either. He doesn’t deserve to satisfy his basic, human needs. This world is full of humans, but he’s not one of them. Not him. Not Moriarty. Not the detective. Not Luke Madder. And not – 

His cell phone rings. The ringtone cracks the quietude, breaks something inside of him. He budges, reaching for his pocket. 

“Hello?” His voice is raspy from disuse. 

“Colonel Moran.” The voice on the other end is sickly sweet. There’s another ‘not-human’ to add to the list. “It’s been _far_ too long.” 

“Adelbert,” grunts Sebastian. 

“What’s wrong? You sound down.” Adelbert doesn’t wait for a response. “I know what will cheer you up. Do _I_ have the job for you.” 


End file.
